


fugue in red

by hiraethia



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, E M O T I O N S, F/F, Found Family Feels, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Classical Music, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, cellist!andrew, healing!!, it's so soft, no moriyamas bc screw those guys, softness and sadness, violinist!neil, wholesome twinyard content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13737402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethia/pseuds/hiraethia
Summary: the first time andrew saw neil, he was playing in the middle of a concert hall, bleeding red.(all neil has is his mother's old violin, all andrew has is the cello that he doesn't care about. but maybe now they'll have each other).





	1. how to bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew reluctantly attends a concert with kevin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussion of andrew's past in the beginning part
> 
> listen for full effect: [schindler's list: what neil plays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XNSsv86lsok)

"Andrew isn't like other musicians his age," his previous orchestra director had told Bee after their final concert of the season. Andrew was sitting on a bench near the exit of the concert hall, absently tapping his fingers against his cello case as his adopted mother cast a glance his direction.

"How so?" Bee asked, rolling up the program in her hands. It wasn't a nervous tic; Andrew knew that she always liked to do something with her hands. 

"He's very, _very_ skilled," Maestra Schultz had said. "He has all this raw talent, I can tell. He just doesn't use it. Plenty of other musicians would probably kill to have half the talent he does."

Bee started to say something in reply, but Andrew very loudly kicked his cello case so that it rolled out from under him. Aaron jumped from where he sat next to Andrew. The noise echoed through the emptying hall, and his mother glanced back at him again. 

She read whatever expression was on his face rather quickly, said something about talking to him, and then bid Schultz farewell. 

Those psychiatry skills were really quite useful.

Bee asked him on their way home, "Is she right, Andrew?"

Andrew shrugged, staring at the street lights as they flashed by. Night completely encompassed the highway, car headlights like fireflies flitting through the darkness.

Bee asked again, ten minutes later, "Do you hate this, Andrew? If you do, I won't force you to continue." 

That was a good question.

Andrew didn't pick up the cello until Bee adopted him, around five years ago at this point. His childhood was a state of impermanence, transitioning between different foster homes and would-be families - he wasn't sure if he could even keep his name, let alone a bulky instrument to take everywhere. He was never sure what he could return home to: a figure crawling over him in the hushed dark, a social worker who was all-too tired of him, a disappointed "parent" with their hand raised or fists clenched. 

His worst home had been the Spears - because he'd been so close. Sometimes he didn't know what was worse: the ghost of Drake Spear's figure standing in the doorway, ready to tear Andrew apart once more, or the ghost of Cass Spear's smile, warm and welcoming and _kind._

Andrew had nearly torn himself apart to keep Cass, a pipe dream blown apart in the wind like smoke. Home was a fragile thing, an unfamiliar taste, and he'd thought the Spears were the closest he'd ever get to it.

Then he discovered he had a twin brother, named Aaron.

Then he discovered Drake's plans for them both once they were reunited.

Then everything went downhill at once - Andrew was rolling down a mountain and he struck his skull open at the bottom.

He'd been the one to destroy the brakes to Drake's car, leading the bastard to die in a fiery inferno as he was thrown into a ditch in the side of the road. He'd allowed himself to be taken away from Cass once more, the black tears running down her face matching her black funeral dress - only this time, he wasn't alone. 

He had Aaron.

(Tilda was another story - she died of a drug overdose. She'd spent her miserable, pathetic life teetering the edge of addiction, falling off the cliff but dangling on with decaying fingers, and she'd finally let go).

It was Bee that finally stuck. She worked as a therapist, her warm smile but knowing eyes unnerving the moment she saw Andrew and Aaron. She reminded Andrew too much of Cass - her honeyed warmth certainly had to come with a catch. Sweet things always rotted eventually - even the most vibrant, beautiful flower would wilt, and Andrew wore the decayed petals as proof on the insides of both his wrists.

The catch never came. 

Life with Bee had been difficult at first, between Andrew's apathetic suspicion and Aaron's timid silence. Bee was endlessly patient, and some days it felt like Andrew just kept taking from her already empty well. But she never raised her hand at them, never raised her voice, just spoke to them sternly and reasonably. 

(Somewhere along the line, Nicky showed up. He'd heard of Tilda's death and had flown into the states to visit Andrew and Aaron, cousins he'd never interacted with. He'd thanked Bee, too earnestly to seem real, and constantly visited them).

As the years passed, Andrew stopped waiting around for the catch. He stopped waiting for the steel dog trap to close around his ankle, and he afforded a few more words to Bee at a time. She took anything he gave as a precious gift, never forcing him open or tearing him down. She treated Aaron the same way. 

Things weren't perfect - of course not. Andrew still had his nightmares, days where he'd go without talking at all, nights where he couldn't sleep because it felt like there was a weight sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for when he let his guard down to pounce. His skin still sometimes crawled and felt two sizes too small, and his chest sometimes would ache with the pain of holding everything down.

Bee suggested music as an outlet for the both of them. Andrew knew she could tell when his bad days where (she had a _job_ for that, after all), knew from the tight expression on her face that she wanted to help but understood that he wouldn't let her - at least not yet. 

So she signed Andrew and Aaron up for the orchestra program at their school as an experiment. He'd chosen the cello on a careless flick of his wrist, while Aaron chose the viola since the program was short on players.

Music and reading were the only two ways Andrew allowed himself to escape. Sometimes he felt like Atlas, holding the weight of the world upon his shoulders. Sometimes he felt like buckling underneath it, bringing himself and everyone around him down. He let himself get distracted, because if he let himself spiral further he'd lose the control he'd always fought for. 

He didn't know when anything became home to him. He didn't know when he last smiled genuinely. He didn't know if he'd ever become truly interested in the cello, in the way Aaron was in his viola. But he did know that things started getting better once Bee took them in, and he did know that the air tasted sweeter when he breathed.

_(A drowning person comes up for air. It's never tasted so good before. They start hyperventilating)._

Looking away from the scenery outside the window to his mother, Andrew watched the way the car headlights reflected in the lenses of her thin glasses. Her dark hair tucked into a bun, her formal navy blue shirt and dress that she'd worn to his concert, she couldn't look any more different from Cass Spear.

Perhaps that was a good thing.

Andrew glanced in the rear view mirror, where Aaron was taking a nap in the backseat. Then he looked back to Bee, sighing quietly.

"I don't care enough to hate it," he said bluntly. 

Bee raised her eyebrow as they drove down a ramp. "Is that so?"

"I'm not a prodigy. Schultz exaggerates things," Andrew said, leaning back and fiddling with his dress shirt. 

"Well, I've heard you play. She might be onto something."

"I thought therapists weren't hopeless optimists."

A small smile flickered across Bee's face. "No, you're right, Andrew. We tell the truth."

Annoyance flickered briefly through Andrew. He silently cursed Bee and her innate ability to shut down their arguments before they even started. He looked away from her, making a point to stare out the window again. 

She left them in silence for the rest of the way home.

\-- 

"You think you could practice for at least _five_ minutes a week?" Kevin asked, glaring disdainfully at Andrew as he packed his cello away. "That's less than one minute a day."

"Let me think about it," Andrew said, loosening his bow. "No."

Nicky stifled a laugh into his hand, straightening up when Kevin directed a burning glare toward him. "You too, Nicky."

"Oh, come on," he whined.

"I enjoy watching the violists bicker," Matt mused to Andrew, not that he cared, leaning over his double bass. "It's like watching seagulls fight over food."

"Matt," Renee chastised, though she was smiling herself.

New York Symphony Orchestra, or NYSO, was founded and directed by David Wymack and Abby Winfield. It wasn't one of the better known professional orchestras, but it was one nonetheless. Andrew had auditioned after months of incessant insistence from the one and only Kevin Day, a rising viola star and prodigy, son of Wymack himself.

He met Kevin in their college orchestra. He told himself the only reason he bothered to continue playing the cello was because it was the only thing he was good at. Bee saw it differently, but she didn't bother to enlighten Andrew on himself. 

(You don't need me - you'll figure it out yourself, she'd told Andrew the day before he graduated high school. She'd had this strange smile on her face. Nicky told Andrew it was because she was proud of him).

Kevin, the bastard, saw Andrew's apparent talent the day of their first rehearsal. He'd asked Andrew after the first week, "Why do you play cello if you don't care at all?"

Andrew had shot back, "Why do you play viola if no one cares about it?"

There was a smile, only half-arrogant, on Kevin's face as he replied. "That's why."

He'd insisted that Andrew joined NYSO with him once he graduated, and Andrew only gave in because he knew Kevin would never let him live it down if he didn't. Aaron auditioned and got in as well, and eventually Nicky followed.

Playing with NYSO wasn't as excruciating as Andrew thought it would be. The presence of his family along made it tolerable. Between his kind stand partner Renee, Kevin constantly glaring at him from his seat as principal, and Wymack who for some reason insisted on being called Coach instead of Maestro, Andrew would go as far as to say he slightly _enjoyed_ playing with the orchestra.

(Not that he'd ever voice that to anyone, ever).

Years with Bee, settled in one place, with an actual family and home, had rounded out some of his harsher edges. There were parts of Andrew that he kept tucked away, hidden so that no one knew they existed - but for the most part, he was getting better. 

He let others past his first walls - not far enough to get past his second, third, fourth ones - but one was enough.

Wymack returned from one of his meetings outside with Abby and other staff, waving his baton in a shooing motion at his remaining musicians.

"Get the hell out of here. I need to close up. Kevin, stop bitching about Andrew - as long as he's not messing up I'm fine with however _little_ he practices."

" _Coach,_ " Kevin started, but Matt cut him off.

"That's our cue to leave! Anyone wanna grab dinner with me at the plaza?"

"I'll come!" Nicky said, too enthusiastically. Kevin snapped his mouth shut and glared at Wymack, who glared right back. "Andrew, Aaron, that means you two are coming by default. Right?"

"We're not a package deal," Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, "unlike Matt and Dan."

"He's acknowledged our presences," Dan said teasingly, slinging her arm around Matt's shoulders, carrying her trumpet case in the other. "I think that's reason for celebration."

Wymack looked pained, tossing his baton onto the stand. "Just get out of my sight, maggots. Remember rehearsal on Friday. Don't be hungover."

"Will do," Matt said dryly as he zipped up his case. 

The plaza wasn't far from the rehearsal hall. They always went there as a group after exceptionally long rehearsals, and Andrew always got the ice cream from the shop next door to the diner. 

It was nice to have a routine, for once. 

After eating, they strolled through the plaza, watching the shops light up to fend off the night, illuminating the fountain with gold. Andrew stayed near the back with Renee and Kevin as Nicky and Matt got into a heated debate over who was more forgotten: the viola or double bass. 

Andrew was fine with remaining quiet and listening to Nicky slowly lose his mind, watching as Renee, ever-so faithful, played the mediator. They eventually returned to the parking lot, Andrew waiting as Nicky and Aaron sat in the back, Kevin sitting down up front.

He made sure to turn the radio up whenever a raucous pop song came on just to spite Kevin.

They were only five minutes from Kevin's place when his phone rang. He made Andrew turn down the music to answer it.

"Hey," he said, turning away toward the window. He paused for a minute, before raising his eyebrows and smiling - which was a rare sight in itself. Andrew pulled over, turning on the emergency lights, and made a point to stare at Kevin through the rear view mirror.

Kevin glanced at him, rolling his eyes. "Yes. I'll be able to make it. Yes. That sounds good." Then he continued to say something in French for another minute, before finally hanging up.

"Who was that?" Nicky asked, practically hanging over the seat to gawk at Kevin.

"An old friend," Kevin said. Andrew swerved back into traffic when it was clear Kevin wasn't going to elaborate, rolling his eyes when Aaron let out a string of expletives from the back.

\-- 

It wasn't until Friday's rehearsal that Kevin finally told Andrew he'd been invited to a concert by his old friend back from high school, Jean Moreau. 

Andrew searched through his memory, eventually remembering that he'd seen Jean's name in the news before. Something about being one of the youngest violinists to play as a guest soloist at the LA Phil. Andrew didn't care at the time.

"I didn't know you had friends," he remarked as Kevin applied rosin to his bow.

Scoffing, Kevin replied, "For that comment, I'm making you come with me."

"Oh, no."

"The concert is next week. I get one free ticket, thanks to Jean. You're coming."

"You're mistaken. I'm booked fully on that day," Andrew lied.

"Like how?"

"Practicing."

"That's a lie," Renee chimed in, grinning meekly and winking when Andrew turned a death glare on her. 

"Maybe the concert will actually motivate your lazy ass to practice," Kevin agreed. "I'm coming to your place. Be dressed nicely."

"You forgot the part where I did not consent to this."

"I'd like to come as well," Renee said. "Are the tickets all sold out yet?"

Kevin went on a spiel about the orchestra Jean was playing with and how there were only a few tickets left, while Andrew was tempted to chuck his cello out the nearest window. He didn't know what he did to deserve anything in his life. Maybe he'd gone on a murdering spree and killed fifteen children or something.

The thing about Kevin was, when he set his mind on something, he didn't let go. He was even more tenacious than even Wymack. 

Andrew dressed in a black sweater and jeans in the same color. He'd moved out of Bee's place since he'd become a part of NYSO. His New York apartment was surrounded by bustle and noise, but it somehow felt lonelier without the comforting quiet of Bee's home. It would have to make do until her next visit.

Kevin knocked on Andrew's door loudly, as if to reinforce the fact that he was a complete and utter shit-bag. Huffing, Andrew shoved the wrinkled copy of his ticket into his back pocket and answered the door before Kevin could kick it down.

"That's what you're wearing?" Kevin asked, eyeing Andrew skeptically.

"I'm wearing something." Andrew looked past Kevin at Renee. "Good evening, Renee."

She beamed. "Evening, Andrew. Shall we go?"

The concert hall was completely sold out, full of the noise of conversations and muted anticipation. Andrew, Kevin, and Renee sat near the front where they had a rather good view of the orchestra - not that Andrew cared at all.

He just sat back in his seat, staring at the elegantly carved ceiling, praying that the stupid concert would be over soon.

The orchestra filed out twenty minutes later. The cacophony of musicians warming up overpowered the noise of talk, at least until the concertmaster stood up and beckoned with his head for the tuning to start. Andrew recognized Jean sitting next to him on stage, his dark hair glossed back as his eyes focused on his stand partner.

The program itself was sure to be interesting, but Andrew was too dulled to bother getting invested in the music. He let it turn into background noise, staring at the ceiling and counting the number of lights on it. 

Eventually Andrew estimated an hour had passed before the program was finally drawing to an end. He focused back in, crossing his legs and wishing he had a cigarette to smoke. 

He was wondering if he could somehow sneak out the back exit when the conductor turned around to finally address the audience.

"Thank you for coming tonight," she said into the microphone. "We so appreciate your continuous support throughout our season, and we certainly hope we've fulfilled your expectations tonight. Our music has been very focused on the classical era so far, but as a final farewell for now, we have decided to include a famous piece by the even more famous John Williams.

“For our finale tonight, as you can see, we will be playing the main theme of Schindler’s List, featuring our concertmaster Neil Josten,” the conductor said with a visibly proud smile. Andrew felt Kevin perk up beside him, leaning forward. “Thank you for coming to the final concert of our season, and we hope to see you returning for our other programs in the near future.”

She turned around, gesturing with her free hand, and the man sitting in the first row stood up. Andrew had a good view of the man’s face as he walked toward the edge of the stage, gleaming violin in one hand and his bow hoisted like a gun in the other. Dark auburn hair glossed back, with one stray curl hanging over his forehead. Large, unreadable eyes that glistened gold in the bright stage lighting. Scarred knuckles and long, graceful-looking fingers, the faintest ghost of a smile on his face as he lifted his violin and leaned his cheek against it.

Andrew didn’t have much time to think of anything else before they started playing.

He didn’t have much time to breathe before Neil started playing.

And oh, maybe Andrew didn’t ever have a real appreciation of music, not in the way Kevin or Renee did. He appreciated a pretty sound, he could tell an off-key note, and he bristled at a wrong chord. Nothing particularly ever struck him as truly beautiful, not in a breathtaking or heart-shaking way. No, his world was black and white, smudged with gray, with not a single splash of color in it.

Then there was Neil. 

Playing like he was on his last breath, playing like it was the only thing that could keep him alive, Neil Unknown Josten was a dash of red in white snow. He bled, he breathed, he cried. Sunset red, blood crimson, rosy blush. Worn maroon, cardinal roses, stained cherry blossoms. 

(The little girl in the red coat, standing in the rubbles of a monochrome, devastating world).

((Neil Josten, heart bleeding over his violin, swaying from the loss that wasn’t his and was his all at the same time)).

Red.

Colored with and lost in his sorrow, a silent and slow descent that he tore from his violin and echoed through the otherwise silent concert hall.

Andrew was transfixed, as much as he hated to admit it. He hadn’t heard genuine playing like that in a long time, the last person being Kevin. He didn’t include himself in the list because he’d never cared about cello. Yes, Bee suggested playing it as a way to grow out of his solitude, as an outlet, and Andrew had taken her advice - but he’d never let himself feel while playing it.

Or, he tried not to.

The music swelled, and Neil swayed along with it. His eyes flickered shut, his brows furrowed in concentration as his fingers danced across the fingerboard. If Andrew closed his eyes, he thought he could hear the sound of a violin not crying, but weeping.

He glanced at Kevin, who seemed just as mesmerized as he was. His face had shut down into one of pensiveness as he gazed at the soloist, the man who commanded the stage but seemed to forget he was even on it.

The song only lasted for five minutes, but alone, it felt longer than the entire concert. Andrew stared as Neil gracefully transitioned into the climax of the piece, his violin echoing through the stark silence of the hall. Not once did he open his eyes, like he was afraid he'd see something terrible if he did. 

Neil faded out like someone drowning: soft, quiet, and defeated. 

The entire hall was silent for a long moment, before it erupted into applause. Andrew didn't clap or move or even bother to give a standing ovation - he just watched as a faint smile ghosted across Neil's face, as he took one bow before turning back to his orchestra.

"Holy shit," Kevin breathed. He didn't even bother chastising Andrew on his lack of practicing anymore.

He supposed he had Neil to thank for that.

Leaving the concert hall was an arduous process, with all the people trying to get out at the same time. All the while, Andrew stared at the program in his hands, at Neil Josten's name written as a soloist.

_Neil Josten._

Andrew mouthed the name to himself, and wondered if spoken aloud, if whispered like a secret, Neil Josten could sound as beautiful as his violin.


	2. late bloomers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew meets neil face-to-face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LOOK AT THIS!!!! BEAUTIFUL!!! ART!!! I'M SO EXCITED!!!! by sloth394](http://therarepotterheadedsloth.tumblr.com/image/171237110730)
> 
>  
> 
> [cello suite no 2 courante - andrew plays this at the end of the chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qa9JYjC0VU)

It was Kevin who insisted on staying almost half an hour after the concert officially ended to meet Jean outside in the hall. Andrew was left alone with him, since Renee decided to betray him and get picked up by Allison right after. 

The musicians eventually filed out, some staying behind to greet Kevin whenever they recognized him. Andrew leaned against the wall, bored and itching for a cigarette, as Kevin fiddled with his phone.

Finally, Jean came out of the exit, violin case in one hand and a binder full of music tucked in the other. His solemn expression opened like a crack in thick smatterings of rain clouds when he spotted them, and he nodded in greeting.

"So this is your plus-one," he said in lieu of a hello, words twisted pleasantly by a French accent, piercing gray eyes fixing on Andrew.

"Yes. This is Andrew Minyard," Kevin said, jerking his head in Andrew's direction.

Jean narrowed his eyes for a moment, before nodding again to himself. "Ah. I remember you."

"Devastating," Andrew drawled. Kevin looked like he wanted to elbow him in the side, but Jean just raised his eyebrow.

"You're the principal cellist with the New York Symphony," he continued. "Kevin's told me all about you."

"I didn't realize you were keeping in touch," Andrew said. This time, Kevin turned to face him, eyebrows drawn together in an irritated frown.

"I don't think you've met Neil before," Jean interrupted, glancing behind him. Andrew looked away from Kevin and followed Jean's gaze, and spotted the young concertmaster approaching them. His perfectly combed curls were now disheveled, sweeping across his forehead as he raised his eyebrows at Jean.

"No, I haven't," Kevin agreed. Andrew could tell he was just _barely_ holding back his you-have-so-much-potential-how-have-I-never-heard-of-you-before speech, as Neil stepped up to Jean's side.

"Neil, this is Kevin. We've known each other since we were kids. That is Andrew. He's the principal cellist at NYSO," Jean said, gesturing toward the two of them. "Kevin, Andrew, this is Neil."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for coming," Neil said politely, holding out his hand. Andrew froze when he noticed the pleasant, admittedly faded, lilt to Neil's voice, the ghost of a British accent. 

Kevin grasped Neil's hand while Andrew just stared at him. "Thank you for playing," he returned. "How long have you been playing here?"

"A few years now," Neil answered, "after I graduated."

"We met in college," Jean interjected. He glanced at Neil, and Andrew narrowed his eyes when he noticed the blatant fondness in his face. "It was lucky that Neil ran into me, or he would have been late to his first rehearsal."

"I was lost, okay," Neil protested half-heartedly.

Kevin raised his eyebrows, though his expression was faintly amused. "Julliard, right?" 

Jean replied, "Yes."

"How are the programs there? I've only visited."

"Because you were too busy getting private lessons from your father," Jean said almost teasingly, though he went on to tell Kevin all about the stupid programs offered at Julliard. Andrew didn't care; he longed for a cigarette, but the burning desire was dampened by the strange curiosity tugging at his gut.

He focused on Neil, eyeing the careful way he carried his violin and the way he occasionally fiddled with the cuffs of his suit. A nervous tell - or just a tell of _some_ sort.

He played like he had everything to lose. Andrew knew that kind of passion didn't just come from nowhere. It was a longing, a fire you had to fight for, one you burned your hands and singed your lungs over. Rope burns scarring palms from hanging on for so long, war trenches dug into skin and winding along blue veins.

(No, he played like it was everything that mattered to him - like he would be thrown off kilter, out of orbit, if he failed).

((Andrew's passion was much quieter - almost silent. But it was still there, evident in the constancy of his ash-stained lungs, the stubbornness of his own heart)).

For a second Neil turned, and his eyes snagged with Andrew's in the midst of his thoughts. Something fluttered in his chest - a bird opening its freshly healed wings after a harsh fall - at the brief eye contact. Gazing steadily, gently, at him were a pair of cerulean irises, untainted by stage lighting or shadows: a sky after daybreak, the reflection of the wild sea within a glacier. 

Something that was supposed to be cold shouldn't have felt so warm.

Neil looked away after a moment, the ghost of a half-moon smile present on his face, returning his attention to Jean and Kevin, who were now catching up on their post-college days.

"What're you working on right now?" Kevin was asking, his normally tense and professional posture slouching just slightly as he relaxed. 

"I've been focusing on orchestral music," Jean said. "Neil's working on a Paganini concerto, though."

Kevin turned to Neil with evident excitement in his eyes. "Will you perform it anytime soon?" 

Shrugging, Neil replied, "Perhaps."

"I'd love to see you do so. Actually, our - "

"They just finished their season. Calm down, Kevin," Andrew said. He received a dirty glare from him, while Jean and Neil both clamped down on amused smiles. 

"Well, I don't want to keep you waiting," Jean said after regaining his composure, humor still bright in his voice. "Jeremy's picking us up in five minutes anyways. My boyfriend," he added at Kevin's curious look.

"Oh. _Oh._ " He was smiling - it was probably genuine, except anything genuinely happy or content on Kevin was rare enough that his smile looked warped. "That's great."

"Spare me the awkwardness, Day."

"Gladly. But really."

Jean smirked, slinging his violin case across his back before reaching out and clasping Kevin's hand again. "It's great to see you again. You too," he added, glancing at Andrew. "Tell me when your next concert is and we'll try to come."

"Of course." 

Andrew remained silent as they exchanged their goodbyes, staring out the darkened windows at the lights illuminating the streets. As he and Kevin left in the other direction for the parking lot, he tried to blink the memory of Neil's _blue_ eyes out of his mind.

\--

It was 1:30 in the morning by the time Andrew got home. He wasn't tired (his sleep schedule was fucked anyways) so he headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of hot chocolate with the mix Bee had gotten him a month ago.

He sat down on the couch after grabbing his laptop, blowing off the seam rising from his mug. The current TV station was playing some quiz show, which Andrew kept on for background noise as he searched for his phone.

Once he found it, he scrolled to Bee's contact and waited.

"Hello, Bee," he said as soon as she picked up. 

"Hey, Andrew. How are you feeling?" she asked, her voice warm and familiar. He sipped slowly from his mug, not caring when the hot chocolate burned his tongue slightly.

"Decent," he finally said after a long moment of silence. 

The more time passed, the easier his words came. Andrew was a very late bloomer, and a very slow one at that - his petals were dented and damaged and scarred, but they were beginning to unfurl all the same. Sun-kisses in the form of a place to finally call home, moonshine in the form of a family that didn't toss him aside. Breathing after years of holding his breath, learning how to rearrange his broken pieces so they stopped choking him. 

So he deliberately let slip a few more things that he would've let fester in silence when he was a child, and he knew Bee always took them in with quiet gratefulness, from the soft exhale and shuffling on the other end of the phone.

"That's good," she said. There was a faint clanging in the background, like dishes in a sink. "I know how busy rehearsals can get, so I'm glad you're feeling all right. How are Aaron and Nicky doing?"

"They're fine too," Andrew said, setting aside his mug so he could open his laptop. "Nicky misses hitting the club, so he will probably force us all to go over the weekend. I'm not looking forward to it."

"But you're planning on going already?" Bee asked, teasingly. "I know you only have one concert left until season break - "

"Only two weeks of break."

" - but it looks like I won't be able to attend the concert. I have three days of meetings to get through that weekend. We're trying to brainstorm ways to improve our therapy programs between the local universities and high schools as well. But you can call me when you're done and let me know, and maybe record it as well?"

"I don't think you'd want to hear it anyways. Kevin is playing a concerto," Andrew said, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he started typing Neil's name into the search bar. There wasn't necessarily anything wrong with the violinist, but there was still a curiosity lingering within Andrew - an ember hovering over dry brush.

Neil Josten was a conundrum: an unknown entity, like a moonflower that had sprung to life after years of dormancy; a musician as talented as Kevin, yet a nobody up until now; a quiet man with a darkness that crept through him like a second shadow - a darkness Andrew was too familiar with. 

(He'd seen it in himself before).

As he was searching up Neil's name, Bee chuckled softly. "I'll just skip that part, then."

"Unfortunately I can't." Andrew pursed his lips when the only things that came up were several articles on Neil's recent performances with the New York Strings Ensemble. 

He was content to let Bee fill the silence away with (non-revealing) chatter about her recent patients, work, and colleagues. With the background noise of the quiz show and his mother's voice (it _still_ rocked his heart to call her his _mother_ \- like a pipe dream he'd finally managed to catch, except his hands still felt slippery with oil), Andrew felt more relaxed than he had in a while.

Bee talked for around half an hour, with Andrew interjecting every now and then. His search of Neil had gone nowhere, except that he'd discovered the young violinist had received a scholarship from Julliard - which he'd already known from Kevin. 

"Isn't it past midnight in New York by now?" Bee questioned suddenly while Andrew perused the university website, looking for the music department. "You should get some rest, especially if you're having longer rehearsals."

"Yes," he said absently, looking away from his laptop for a moment to find his cigarette pack.

He stuck a stick between his lips, lighting it up while Bee said, "Call me tomorrow if you have free time."

"See you, Bee."

Andrew hung up first, tossing his phone aside and huffing out of his nose. It seemed like Neil had just sprung out of nowhere, an Athena clanging through Zeus's head until he finally broke free. He was unprecedented, and it was obvious that others thought the same way, from the shallow articles Andrew had found on him.

_A rising violinist who could rival some of the old greats._

_He may not be the next Hilary Hahn, but he is certainly on his way there._

_A striking player, in all aspects of the word._

Andrew shut the laptop with a little more force than necessary, setting it aside and turning off the TV. The noise of the quiz show had become grating. After he finished the rest of the hot chocolate and changed into a large jumper and sweats, Andrew made his way over to where his cello case rested by the door. He picked up his cello, tightening his bow and heading over to the chair he kept by the window overlooking the city.

Staring down from his apartment at the streets below still made his stomach drop, so Andrew sat with his back to the view. 

Closing his eyes, he set his bow to the string.

He wasn't a musician in the conventional way. He didn't practice every day for hours on end, though his fingers were still calloused. He didn't feel the music, though he could still play it like he did. Andrew never cared to define his relationship with music, either - Bee said he'd figure it out eventually. 

(He thought that he didn't care, that music was just a way to spend his life in a non-torturous way. Not exactly a means to an end, but something to pass the time with).

After all, he didn't play to communicate - not like Kevin or even Neil did. He played because - he just did.

Andrew played a few notes at random, which eventually transformed into quicker passages and resonant chords. He let his muscle memory take over, listening to each note in tune with the backdrop of the wide-awake city.

A lonely melody, shitty apartment acoustics, blue eyes, rope-burn desperation. 

He played until his fingertips blistered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hilary hahn is such a good soloist btw, i have at least 2 songs she's played that are gonna be featured in here. :)


	3. spring's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kevin makes neil and jean an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kevin's concerto! [viola concerto in c minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PG_zvtibU2Q)
> 
> no warnings, but a lot of backstories are discussed

Andrew adjusted the bow tie so that it sat snugly at the base of his throat. Then he shrugged on his jacket, pinning it at his waist and turning around to face Nicky and Aaron.

"You look so handsome," Nicky gasped, clapping his hands together, before wrapping an arm around Aaron's shoulder and tugging him close. "Both of you!"

"We look the same," Aaron said, disgruntled but not fighting Nicky's touch.

"And we dress like this for every concert." Andrew adjusted his cuff-links and collar.

"Just let me compliment you, goddamn." Nicky had a fond smile on his face as he turned and left Andrew's bedroom to take a call, probably from his boyfriend Erik. Aaron stayed behind, absently plucking his viola strings while staring into space.

Andrew made sure his collar was properly smoothed out before talking. "Is Katelyn coming?"

Aaron's fingers slipped, accidentally plucking an obnoxiously loud chord. Andrew resisted the urge to roll his eyes, staring at a smudge on the mirror as Aaron figured out a way to respond.

Katelyn Monte wasn't as sore of a subject now as she was years ago, when Andrew and Aaron were still sharpened pieces of shattered glass clashing for a way to fit in their new home with Bee. Andrew hadn't known Aaron - ignored him, even - but he was still there. He was still Andrew's brother, no matter how strung-out or frayed their ties were.

Andrew's hands had still been raw and bleeding from holding onto Cass. Now there was Aaron, and Andrew wasn't going to let go. Not because he loved Aaron, because he didn't _know_ Aaron, but because Aaron had already been lost once to Andrew, and he wasn't keen on losing him again.

He'd latched onto Aaron almost obsessively. Bee had tried to help, telling Andrew only years later, once they'd figured themselves out, that his behavior had been toxic and unhealthy for the both of them. Yet Andrew didn't care at the time - he needed his brother to be close to him because they were both damaged and bruised and broken, and Andrew was _scared._

Bee worked hard to heal the two of them. She didn't try to solve them - she understood that much - but she introduced them to an orchestra, she sat them down at the dinner table every night to talk, and she never once raised her voice or hand at them.

It was the bare minimum to anyone else, but it was everything to people like Andrew and Aaron.

Their mother's constancy helped to settle them, but that didn't mean Andrew didn't vehemently loathe Katelyn for stepping foot into their lives during college. He never quite managed to scare her off completely, mainly because Aaron seemed as equally infatuated with her as she was with him. 

Andrew still remembered the conversation Bee had with him the night Aaron didn't come home to visit. 

( _You don't have to be scared. He won't leave you,_ she'd told him.

 _I'm not scared,_ Andrew had replied. Bee smiled sadly.

 _You are, and that's okay. But you don't have to be anymore, because I'm not leaving you, and neither will Aaron. You will find this out for yourself one day - but trust me until that day comes_ ).

Something in the sureness of Bee's face and the fact that Aaron came back later that week to visit seemed to settle something in Andrew, smooth out his anxiety - whatever it was. 

He'd told Katelyn, in lesser words: "Hurt him, and it's me you'll be answering to next."

Her promise was worth little to Andrew, but seeing Aaron's face light up whenever he saw her was one of the better things in Andrew's life.

He came back to the present when Aaron cleared his throat, tucking his viola back underneath his arm.

"Yes," he said carefully. "Why?"

"Nothing," Andrew said, shrugging. His brother stared at him for a second, before sighing quietly. He had that look of hesitance, like there were words sitting on his mouth that he couldn't quite say - a pill melting on his tongue and coating it with bitterness. Andrew stared back at him through the mirror, and eventually Aaron just nodded slightly and turned to leave.

"Kevin's texting us to get to dress rehearsal early. So hurry up," he said, joining Nicky in the living room.

Andrew shook out his wrists and wiped off the smudge on the mirror. He wondered when the day Bee described would come. 

Sometimes it seemed that she was more a fortuneteller than a therapist. 

(But always a mother).

\-- 

"Neil and Jean will be here, you know," Kevin said once he finished tuning his viola. 

"The one you've been raving about every rehearsal since that concert?" Aaron asked while Andrew took his sweet time unpacking his cello.

"Yes, that one." Moving his fingers up and down the fingerboard almost mindlessly, Kevin turned to Andrew. "Will you hurry up? It's the final concert of the season, and Coach wants to talk to all the string principals."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but we're half an hour before the call time," Nicky called from the table. Kevin ignored him to shoot Andrew a smoothly annoyed glare.

"I'm meeting you backstage with Coach. Ben is here already, so is Thea, and Matt will be here in five."

Andrew glared at Aaron like it was somehow his fault he was in this position, and finally took his cello out the case. He tuned it up and rosined his bow before picking it up and heading in the direction Kevin left.

Wymack was sitting in the foyer with Ben, the concertmaster next to him. Thea was talking quietly with Kevin, pausing to nod in Andrew's direction before returning her attention to Kevin. Andrew set his cello aside and plopped down on the cushions across from Wymack, propping his feet on the coffee table and taking one of the hard candies from the bowl sitting in front of him.

"Nice to see you too, Minyard," Wymack said without heat, following Andrew's actions and popping a mint into his mouth. Andrew tapped two fingers against his temple in a salute.

They waited until Matt arrived to start.

"This isn't anything important, really," Wymack prefaced. "As you know many of the strings are leaving for other orchestras. Not that we're a downgrade of anything, just that they want more rigorous programs, which I'm fine with. I like the way I run things here, and I'm not changing it. 

"Ben, Thea, since this is your last season playing with us, I'll just spare a few words for you two. It's been an honor to be your coach - " 

"Mentor," Thea broke in. 

" - yeah, whatever, don't interrupt me, Muldani - and it will be weird to see you go, but don't think I'm letting you go completely. Although, I could use seeing some new faces. Especially in Day's place."

" _Coach -_ " Kevin started, but Thea quickly shoved him in the ribs to shut him up. 

"I will need your help, as usual, getting through the audition tapes. I have yet to announce our new open positions, but I'd expect a lot of tapes to be coming in. A hundred, at least. Plus, I could use some of your advice with seating." Wymack paused like he was thinking, before shaking his head and rubbing his hands together. "That was all I wanted to say. You're in charge of giving your own sections pep talks as usual." 

It wasn't surprising that Wymack seemed to struggle with the prospect of nearly half his orchestra leaving. NYSO was special in that Wymack and Abby only recruited struggling or fading musicians that needed a second chance, or a third, fourth, or fiftieth one - unconventional musicians who no one else would never have accepted otherwise. People who needed to be believed in where no one else could, people who didn't have a name and couldn't seem to build one or catch on.

Wymack looked for people who had talent in all the wrong places, and took in the emptiest musicians to give them another chance at professional playing - but it must've hurt him to see so many of his players go at once, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

He stood up in a dismissal, though he waved for Ben and Thea to join him in the far corner. Andrew stood up and grabbed his cello, about to leave, when Kevin stepped in front of him, holding out a hand.

"What now," he said flatly.

"You're coming back next season," Kevin said, not quite a question. 

Glancing at his outstretched hand, then back up at his face, Andrew said, "Yes."

"What will it take for you to care?" Kevin suddenly asked.

The question wasn't that jarring, seeing as it was something Kevin had asked him over and over again ever since meeting him. Yet the strangeness of its placement, its timing, managed to worm its way underneath Andrew's careful armor. 

He blinked slowly at Kevin, his fingers tightening ever-so-slightly on his cello.

"I'm not answering that question," Andrew said. "I don't care for this and I never will."

"How could you though?" Kevin looked pained. "You have this talent but you never use it. What benefit do you get just wasting your time away here? Why not just burn your cello the next chance you get, since you hate it so much?"

Andrew's gaze slid lazily to Kevin's still outstretched hand. His eyebrows twitched when his eyes fell on the scars, faded and grown with time, on Kevin's hand. 

Kevin followed Andrew's eyes, and lowered his hands as soon as he noticed Andrew was staring at his scars. He'd seen it before - it wasn't like Kevin tried to hide it - but Andrew had never bothered to ask for the backstory.

"You know I used to play the violin?" he said, tucking his hand close to his chest, almost like a subconscious habit. "It was my mother's instrument. I was supposed to be her protege. But then we got into a car accident, and she died, and I broke my left hand. I quit because I thought there was no coming back from it: I lost my mother, and I lost part of myself. 

"It was Wymack who found out about me and picked me back up. He made me pick up the instrument again, but I couldn't play the violin again, not when it reminded me of my mother too much. So I chose the viola." Kevin's jaw clenched, and his fingers twitched. 

"This is more than just an orchestra to me, and I know that you could feel the same way. It's why I keep pushing you - because you know as well as I do that the way you play? It doesn't just come from anywhere."

Andrew remained silent, but Kevin took his reticence as acknowledgement. Nodding like he was satisfied with himself, Kevin stepped aside. 

"I'll see you during rehearsal," he said over his shoulder, before disappearing backstage again.

Andrew stood still, staring at the vacant space where Kevin was standing. There was a strangeness in his chest, like everything within him was moved over an inch and he didn't know how to navigate himself. He only started moving when Matt rolled his bass in front of him.

"Hey, you look out of it," he said, frowning. "You okay?"

Only then did Andrew notice the silence in the foyer. He glanced over his shoulder only to find the door to Wymack's office closed, and Ben and Thea gone.

"How long was I standing there?" 

"A few minutes. Ben and Thea went to tune up." Matt tilted his head to the side. "Did Kevin traumatize you or something?"

Sighing shortly, Andrew brushed around Matt. "Something like that."

\-- 

The concert hall was packed, humming with vibrant noise and transient talk. Andrew tapped his bow silently against his strings, absently practicing while Renee gazed around with that same wonderment on her face. She always looked so awed whenever the venue they were playing at was sold out, whenever she looked out upon the crowd.

"Is your mother here today?" she asked Andrew as more people kept filing in to take up the empty seats.

Following her gaze to the audience, Andrew replied, "No. She didn't have time."

"That's a shame." Renee plucked her strings, tapping her foot against the floor. "But I heard Neil Josten and Jean Moreau are here today. Kevin told me."

"Yes," he said absently.

"That's exciting. They're both quite talented. Do you think they'll audition next season?"

Andrew leaned his elbow on the shoulders of his cello. "I don't care."

"I hope they do," Renee said, ignoring his attempts to end the conversation. "They'd be great additions to NYSO. Our violin section does need some changes."

"I'm telling Thea you said that."

Smiling warmly, Renee rubbed her palms against her dress. "And what - that'll be your first time talking to her?"

Before Andrew could indulge her in a comeback, the lights were dimming so that everything was focused on the center stage. A hush fell over the audience, dimly ringing through the rumbling and disquieting stands. He joined the orchestra in tapping his feet against the floor as the stage doors opened, and Wymack walked up to the stand. Applause and sonorous cheers filled the hall, emptying it of silence. 

Wymack took a bow, nodding curtly to the audience, before turning back to his orchestra. His face was stoic but concentrated as he picked up his baton, tapping it once against the stand. His eyes scanned his orchestra, snagging on each of his musicians for at least a millisecond, and Andrew thought he nodded ever-so-slightly when their eyes met.

Resting his bow against his strings but muting them, Andrew waited for Wymack's cue.

The concert itself was lively, or it was supposed to be, at least. Wymack put everything into his conducting, and so did his players. Renee swayed with the beat, her foot tapping out the counts silently against the floor. 

Music swelled around Andrew, covering him like thick petals. If it had a scent, it would've smelled so irresistibly sweet, like nectar and ambrosia. Or like fire, fresh and burnt and invigorating. Passion strung and thrummed through the air, vibrating with each plucked note or piercing sound. Life filled the hall, transcending any empty space left behind by aching souls or broken hands, until all that was left was beautiful noise.

And Andrew was part of it. He was playing it, contributing his own self to it - but he still felt nothing. He stood on the cusp of something great, something rare, something that anyone would probably only get four or five times in their lives - yet he was so alone all the same.

That was the crucial difference between him and Kevin, him and Renee, him and Aaron. They felt where he didn't - where he _couldn't._

And where Andrew never forgot, he'd forgotten how to find his way back. 

Almost an hour passed until the end of the night. Andrew lost time, blanking out and just playing by muscle memory and instinct. Then Kevin was standing up and bowing to the audience, standing at the edge of the stage just out of Wymack's reach, viola resting dutifully against his shoulder.

They made brief eye contact, before Wymack nodded and turned to his orchestra for the final time.

Kevin tapped his fingers against his viola, knuckles tightening like bowstring, and gave a brittle smirk.

He played like it was all he lived for. He didn't play like his life was on the line, because playing _was_ his life. The music was his natural heartbeat, the viola an extension of his arm, and his body lines blurred together so well he was a mobile shadow. He struck out the chords effortlessly and with grace, pausing to take steadying breaths before continuing to bash his listeners down even further. 

There was a reason Kevin Day was one of the greatest rising violists in the world, and anyone with working eyes and ears could see it. The passion with which he played, with a broken-then-splinted hand and a broken-then-mended spirit, was rarely seen anywhere else. 

For that, Andrew made the effort to actually pay attention to Wymack for his entrances.

The concert ended with wild applause, wobbly smiles, and a bow hoisted high in the air - victory.

Wymack motioned for them all to stand up and turn towards the audience, bowing in unison. Andrew scanned the crowd, finding no familiar faces among the endless sea of standing ovations.

"Backstage, quick," Wymack told them as he stepped off the podium. "Good work."

Andrew filed offstage, leading his section into the back. He made quick work of packing away his cello, snapping the case shut and slinging it over his shoulders. Before he could go anywhere, Renee met him with a kind, warm smile.

"You were wonderful," she said. "I'll miss seeing you over break, but maybe we could get together. Perhaps spar a bit?"

"That beats practicing," Andrew said. Renee laughed and patted Andrew's cello, still careful as always not to touch him without permission.

"I'll see you around, Andrew." After Andrew echoed the same sentiment, she went off in Allison's direction, where she was standing by the drums.

Andrew found Kevin standing outside in the foyer, already deep in conversation with someone else. Wymack was standing next to him, looking on with a vaguely curious look on his face. As Andrew got closer, he recognized Jean's tall figure and Neil's auburn hair.

"You know, once this season is over, we're going to have several open spots," Kevin was saying. "Nearly half our violins will be leaving for other orchestras. You two have to audition. You're too good to pass up."

Jean looked between Kevin and Wymack. "I'm sure there are plenty other musicians who want a chance as well."

"It doesn't matter as much for them," Kevin retaliated. "You know of Coach's standards. You can't just stay in the same orchestra forever. You're already plateauing, and if you want to get out of that you need a change in scenery."

At Kevin's words, Neil's face, curiously enough, shut down completely. Any trace of emotion wiped out as he took a subtle step back, fingers folding the corners of the program down enough that they began to crease. 

Andrew stepped up to Kevin as Wymack cut in.

"What Kevin means to say is, you should definitely audition. We could use your skills and talents here. I've heard and seen many good things about you - both of you - and I think it's _my_ orchestra that needs a change in scenery," he said, shooting Kevin a sharp look, "not you."

"We'll think about it," Jean finally said after a glance at Neil's blank face. "We're honored by your offer."

"Jean," Kevin started, but Wymack shot him another dark look.

"Nothing is a done deal, Kevin. You should know that," he said quietly, before turning back to Neil and Jean. "Audition dates and deadlines will be announced by the following week, and I'll be looking forward to seeing your tapes, if and when you do decide you want to try out."

"Thank you." Jean dipped his head in what looked like a polite bow, before turning to Andrew. "Good performance. Looks like you decided to put in some effort, for once."

Andrew stared at Jean flatly as Wymack snorted. "The little midget never does anything during rehearsals. I wonder why I even keep him around."

"I'm getting tenure," Andrew said.

"Damn right you are." Sighing and pinching his nose, Wymack made a shooing gesture at him. "Get out of my sight now."

Kevin rolled his eyes but left for the exit, walking alongside Neil and Jean. Andrew waited until Aaron and Nicky caught up with them to follow.

On the way out he noticed the way Jean kept close to Neil's side, fingers often brushing against Neil's wrist in a non-accidental way, as if to check in on him. 

_Are you still there?_

Andrew thought he knew what a ghost looked like, but he hadn’t known a ghost could seem so real - a mirage turned solid, a musician without the music. 

The post-concert exhaustion was catching up to him. Andrew shouldered his cello, breaking his gaze away from Neil and Jean, Jean and Neil. He shoved aside his thoughts for later, reaching into his pockets to dig out a pack of cigarettes. 

He looked behind him to see Aaron walking with Katelyn, both deep in conversation and smiling. Their hands were linked, squeezing but not desperately.

Andrew turned away, lighting up a cigarette and breathing in.


	4. welcome, peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as spring goes to summer, so do auditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of neil's [audition solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jXXWBt5URw)
> 
> part of jean's [audition solo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLCNBML_klU)
> 
> they're not actually talked about that much in this chapter, but just in case u were curious as to what they played :)

Bee's place was especially warm during dusk, when the sun glared straight through her open windows and spilled over the carpet floors.

Andrew sat by the half-open screen door, cigarette dangling limply from between his lips as he wiped some sweat off his forehead. He squinted into the sinking sun, watching the sky blur from blue into peachy orange. South Carolina's spring season wasn't too different from the summer: humid and balmy, lazy and smothering. Although it was near the end of May already, so summer was already close.

He stuck his feet outside so they rested on the concrete of the backyard, stubbing his cigarette out on the ground. The kitchen, behind him, was alive with chatter, Nicky and Bee's voices intertwining with familiar chatter. If Andrew inhaled deeply enough, he would smell the cake they were baking mingling with the aroma of roasted chicken.

Peace was generous, truly. It visited Andrew more often now, knocking gently on his doors and wiggling its feet on his battered welcome mat. He was learning to keep his door unlocked now, maybe even a tiny bit open on the really good days. 

Peace would come in and make itself at home right in his living room, hollowing out its own place in his heart. Andrew would welcome it - not so much in words, but in the way he stepped aside and let it stay there for as long as it would.

It was unfamiliar and familiar all at the same time: hazy and well-defined, unreal and real and surreal.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting the sunlight warm his eyelids. Nicky shrieked as he dropped a pan, the sound followed by Bee's gentle laughter. A car honked outside as it passed by on the highway behind their home.

Footsteps approached Andrew from behind, and he turned around, only to see Aaron standing there.

"Mind if I sit there?" he asked.

"You're being oddly polite," Andrew observed languidly, even as he scooted over to make room for his brother. Aaron rolled his eyes but sat down, eyes flickering to the patch of soot left behind by Andrew's cigarette.

"You need to quit smoking, you know."

"I don't need to do anything." Andrew reached into his pocket and shook his pack of cigarettes at Aaron just to spite him, raising his eyebrows when Aaron snatched it out of his hand.

"Get nicotine patches or something," he said. 

Andrew let Aaron set aside the pack. He didn't smoke as much anymore, anyways. It was more of muscle memory than anything, itching for a cigarette when he felt helpless or lost or overwhelmed. Or bored. 

"Katelyn wants me to move in with her," Aaron said after four minutes of silence and cloud-gazing. 

Andrew waited for the anger to come, for it to break into the carefully constructed walls of his home and kick peace out. Aaron was waiting too, from the way he held himself somewhat stiffly, from the way he deliberately stared out at the sun behind the highway.

Though things were different now, weren't they? Andrew and Aaron weren't decaying anymore, rotten and wilting petals beginning to heal and right themselves. They didn't leave bruises on each other's wrists anymore from holding on too tight, and they didn't suffocate each other under the guise of protection. 

(Bee made sure to handle that aspect of their relationship first).

Aaron was Aaron, and Andrew was Andrew. They were twins, they were lost, they were found. 

They were safe.

Andrew thought he'd like to keep peace around. It was a kind guest, never throwing any furniture or tearing down his walls. It was kind, it was healing. 

He turned to look at Aaron, forcing him to do the same. Anyone else looking would've seen a mirror image: a boy staring at himself, holding on, recovering, (things-are-getting-better-now), languid underneath the syrupy sun. 

"What, is this an early invitation for the housewarming?" Andrew shrugged and pretended to ignore the sudden swell of relief in his brother's eyes after a brief lull of shock. 

A broken scoff came out of Aaron, and he looked down at the ground. He ignored Andrew's remark, a quiet, private smile dawning on his face.

"Thank you." 

(Andrew knew Aaron meant it for everything).

He turned away, tapping his fingers over his knee. "Nicky will probably destroy the cake if you don't help," he said. 

"As if you'd care if it was on the floor," Aaron retorted, though he was getting up anyway. Andrew watched him take the pack of cigarettes into the kitchen and toss it into the trash.

Dinner was calm and warm. Nicky filled Bee in on all their rehearsal mishaps and recent concerts; Aaron was far more visibly relaxed, even joining in on some of their conversations. Andrew remained quiet, though he let the sound of their voices envelope him. Any tension he had was gone, replaced with the heavy feeling that came with guaranteed safety, learned after years of trying and tripping.

The cake was chocolate flavored, Andrew's favorite.

Later that evening Aaron left to call Katelyn. Nicky retreated to his bedroom to Skype Erik, leaving Andrew with Bee, not that he minded at all.

They sat in front of the TV and watched the news broadcast. Andrew grabbed a pint of chocolate ice cream from Bee's freezer and plopped down on the couch, rubbing it between his hands to thaw it slightly. 

"Aaron told me about Katelyn wanting them to move in together," Bee was saying, her gentle voice overpowering that of the news anchor's apathetic tone. "What do you think about it?"

Scooping a spoonful of ice cream, Andrew let it melt on his tongue before answering. "Aaron can do what he wants."

"He was asking me about it last night, for a good way to break the news to you," Bee said. "He was quite terrified. But frankly, that's understandable. Moving can be so daunting, especially with someone else."

Andrew didn't have the heart or energy to tell Bee that he was used to all the moving around, that he'd grown callous to it since his childhood. He just shrugged, sticking the spoon back into the ice cream. 

"Aaron's life isn't mine." It never was, really. 

There was that smile again, the proud look that glowed on Bee's face, warm enough to light up whole planetariums. Andrew looked away after a short moment, slumping further into the couch. 

She didn't say anything else about the topic, moving on to the latest books she'd read and had been recommended by her patients. Andrew tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling as he left Bee's voice sink in. 

The screen door was still half-ajar. The warm evening air seeped in, but the feeling within his bones was even warmer.

\-- 

The day after Andrew, Aaron, and Nicky returned to New York, he called up Renee to spar.

"How was your break? I missed seeing you." was the first thing Renee asked when she saw him outside the gym.

"It was alright. You?" They found an empty wrestling mat by the weights. Renee smiled as she caught Andrew up on all the details of her break, how she and Allison made a spontaneous five-day trip to Hawaii to celebrate their third-year anniversary together (oh, the joys of having a wealthy family). She wrapped her hands carefully, flexing her fingers and grinning when Andrew made a mild jab at her new "tan."

"Would you like me to wrap your hands? Kevin's been suggesting that to me," she offered. "He doesn't want us injuring our fingers, or we can't play."

"I couldn't care less about what Kevin says about my fingers." Andrew tossed aside his water bottle and stepped onto the mat. "Square up, Renee."

"Never say that again, Andrew."

She threw the first punch regardless.

They sparred for around an hour before stopping, sitting on the edge of the mats while they caught their breaths. There were a few bruises lining Renee's biceps and thighs, but none were too serious. There was a scrape on the corner of Andrew's mouth, and his arms were sore, but he welcomed the familiar ache.

"Here, I have a Band-aid for that," Renee murmured, motioning for Andrew to turn his face toward her as she peeled it open. Andrew huffed slightly but sat still as Renee patched him up with a ginger touch, gently patting the bandage over the corner of his lips. "Sorry about that."

"I thought we agreed on no apologies," Andrew said.

A soft smile broke out across Renee's face, and she ran her fingers through Andrew's hair. "Allison's holding a workshop right now, so I'm free for basically the whole day. Do you want to grab lunch?"

Andrew stood up instead of responding, shaking out his legs and grabbing his bag. He let Renee lead the way out, and she took him to a nearby cafe that had recently opened. The waiter gave them a strange look at the sight of Renee's bruises and Andrew's Band-aid, but didn't ask any questions.

The rest of the afternoon was filled with Renee's warm chatter and overly creamy coffee.

\--

"Andrew!"

"Oh, I am so unhappy to see you again, Kevin," he deadpanned as Kevin approached him.

Ignoring Andrew's jab, Kevin said impatiently, "You were supposed to be here five minutes ago. Coach needs you to look over the audition tapes."

"I don't get paid enough for this," he said, slipping past Kevin and making his way toward Wymack's office.

"None of us do." Kevin practically kicked the door open, revealing Wymack hunched over at his desk, eyes glued to his computer screen.

"Andrew, how kind of you to grace us with your presence," Wymack remarked sarcastically. "Sit your ass down."

"We've eliminated at least six violinists already. We need you to take a look at the cellists," Kevin said.

Sighing shortly, Andrew picked up the headphones sitting in front of Wymack and slipped them on. 

He had gotten through probably five more recordings and eliminated three of them when Abby came in to deliver coffee.

"How's it going?" she asked, leaning over Wymack's chair to peer at the computer.

"It doesn't get easier," Wymack replied, scrubbing a hand gruffly over his face and grabbing a cup of coffee. Andrew took a cup for himself as well, and Abby flashed him a smile. 

"How many more recordings do you have?" 

"Of violins alone, at least another thirty. I haven't even looked at the violas yet." Kevin sat down next to Andrew, glancing at his laptop. "What's it looking like for the cellos?"

"I've sent Wymack the better recordings," Andrew said, chewing absently on the rim of his coffee cup. 

Abby pulled up a chair to help Wymack with looking at the violins, while Kevin grabbed his own laptop to evaluate the violists.

The room was quiet save for the occasional shift and sigh, the occasional conversation over one particularly good or terrible candidate. 

(It was peaceful in its own way, a routine to be followed every so often).

((And maybe Andrew would never be as passionate as the lady he'd just watched tearing away at her cello, but maybe he didn't need to. He didn't really hate anything anymore)).

It eventually was 9:30 at night, and Andrew's eyes were positively aching. He'd finally finished going through the cellos' recordings, slamming his laptop shut and leaning back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You have the names and recordings?" Abby asked.

"Yes." Andrew shoved the list and notes he'd taken down at her, before finishing up the sandwich that Abby had brought them. 

"Kevin, you done?" 

"Yes," he answered, sitting up.

"Alright, then I can tell you," Wymack said, glancing in Kevin and Andrew's direction. "Jean Moreau and Neil Josten auditioned."

Kevin nearly knocked himself out of the chair with excitement. "Did you - what did you think?" He paused, before throwing away his half-finished coffee, as if the prospect of his friend auditioning alone energized him enough. "What about Neil?"

"Calm down," Wymack said, though his expression said he was amused. When he didn't say anything else, Kevin gestured wildly with his hands, as if he wanted to wring the words from Wymack. Abby chuckled.

"We're calling them back for the live auditions," she reassured him.

"Oh, _yes,_ " Kevin said, clasping his hands together. 

Andrew got up and went around the desk to peer at the videos over Wymack's shoulder. He could see the recording of Neil still up, though it was paused. 

It captured Neil in a moment of split concentration, bow hovering over his strings, brows furrowed, hands blurred in heated motion. Andrew could only imagine the passion with which Neil was playing, evident in a mere freeze frame.

Andrew felt strange, like he’d just intruded upon something private and had to turn away. The peace within him quivered, bird’s wings fluttering. 

His blue eyes were closed, yet they still burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first rehearsal next!!!! woooooooooooooohooooooooooooooo
> 
> (i'm not gonna write the live audition part bc holy shit writing music is hard and too much braining, plus it'll probably be redundant. so just assume jean/neil slayed. ;)


	5. won't you stay a little longer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are new faces and new rehearsals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( i chose shostakovich symphony no 11 bc i'm playing that in my orchestra right now and boy howdy let me tell you - we are not good enough for it LOL)
> 
> [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTTu6LfFqmY) it is if you wanna give it a listen, if you have the time (it's really long but epic)
> 
> [the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ldAkpoX7HI) that neil practices at the end of the chapter!
> 
> also first real(ish) interactions!! finally!!!

Coming up with fair seating arrangements was one of the greatest banes of Andrew's existence. He was saddled with chairing his own section, but it was still major nuisance. 

He sat on the ground of Wymack's office, peering through his glasses (he'd decided he was too lazy for his contacts that day) at the list of new players and their strengths and weaknesses. Kevin leaned against the wall beside him, sipping (ironically) from a Caprisun as he squinted at his list of players. Wymack was at his desk while Dan sat perched on one of the chairs they'd dragged in from the rehearsal room, sunglasses tucked on top of her head. 

"Any progress?" she asked as Abby walked back in. "The winds and brass are all chaired already."

"Bragging is unattractive," Abby chided playfully, opening a Caprisun for herself. "David, I've taken care of the second violins."

"Great, because the firsts are giving me an aneurysm," Wymack grumbled.

"I'm almost done with the violas," Kevin offered as Dan went to Wymack's side to help. 

"You finish up with them first." They both had the same concentrated set to their face, stubborn, half-angry, and deliberate. Languidly, Andrew thought, _like father, like son._

Andrew had finished chairing the cellos by the time Kevin finished and stood up to help Wymack with the rest of the violins. He and Renee were guaranteed the principal and assistant principal seats, with some of the returning players being switched around with new players. He wasn't sure they'd love him for moving some of the older players down, but at the same time, Andrew didn't care.

He put his glasses up on his head, using them to push back his hair. Plopping down in the chair in front of Wymack, Andrew watched as he, Dan, and Kevin pored over the list of recruits.

"I've got the back rows figured out," Wymack was saying. "Miller is skilled enough, but he lacks the passion I need. Bates is passionate but lacks the skill."

"What about your friend?" Dan asked Kevin. "Jean Moreau, right?"

Kevin shook his head. "Jean is a great assistant principal, and he is invested, but he just...I don't know. Sometimes it's like he continues to play just because he's so used to it. Like it's muscle memory or something."

"I'm sure as hell not making Rowan concertmaster," Wymack said.

Andrew huffed shortly and barely managed not to roll his eyes. He interrupted before Kevin could get into another argument with Wymack.

"Then put Josten first."

They fell silent, before turning their gazes slowly toward him. Kevin's eyes widened, then narrowed as he visibly thought. (It was an arduous process to witness).

"Hi Andrew, forgot you were sitting there," Dan said sarcastically.

Kevin ignored her, focusing on him. "For what reason?" he asked. "This _will_ be his first year here after all."

Andrew heard the silent question beneath the words: _why does he deserve it_?

And he answered it, loudly and clearly.

"He isn't new," he said. "He plays like he has everything to lose."

Wymack leaned forward. "And _you_ like that?"

Gazing at his coach steadily, before glancing over at Kevin, Andrew said again, "That's the only kind of musician worth playing with."

Silence blanketed the room for a brief, stunned moment. The kind of shock that comes with the deadened finally being awakened.

Wymack was the first to break out of his stupor, shifting in his seat and scribbling something down. "Maybe there _is_ a reason I keep you around, Minyard," he muttered, while Dan laughed breathlessly.

"Other than the fact that he's our principal cellist?"

She bantered with Wymack for a while, but Andrew was more focused with the intensity of Kevin's glare. There was something molten in his green eyes, something fiery and sure as he stared at Andrew, like all his faintest beliefs had finally been carved into stone.

"What?" Andrew finally said, unable to take Kevin's gaze any longer.

"Finally having some fun?" Kevin asked in a overly smug way that made Andrew want to punch him in the kidney.

"Fuck you, Kevin," he said quietly, and Abby snorted. Kevin looked away, but Andrew didn't miss the quiet but fierce smile dawning on his face.

\-- 

The day before the first rehearsal of the next season, Andrew, Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin returned to Eden's Twilight for, according to Nicky, a "pre-end-of-the-world-and-by-world-I-mean-our-free-time" party. 

Andrew stayed close to the walls where there were few people. He led his family up to the bar where he could see Roland's familiar figure working with other clients. But the moment Roland caught sight of them, a bright smile spread across his face, as he raised his hand to wave.

"Oh my God, he's the sweetest," Nicky sighed, pulling out an available bar stool and sitting down. "Erik would be such good friends with him."

"The music nowadays really has gone downhill," Kevin remarked, face scrunched up as the vibrations of the obnoxiously loud bass thrummed through the club.

Rolling his eyes, Aaron said, "Not everyone is a classical musician, Kevin. Take a fucking nap."

Roland came over, slapping his hands against the smooth counter. "Hey! I haven't seen you lot in so long. What's going on?"

"Orchestra's been keeping us busy," Nicky said, leaning forward to be heard over the music. "Apparently we might be having a concerto season this time. More soloists, more showing-off, but I don't even mind because they're all so talented. Maybe Andrew will even do a concerto!"

"I would like a drink," Andrew said loudly, interrupting his cousin. Roland chuckled deeply, before he went to work. 

"The usual?"

"Yes." Andrew turned to Aaron. "Go find a table."

Aaron dragged Nicky off with him before he could run his mouth even more, dodging the heaving crowd in favor for the short flight of stairs leading to second floor. Andrew waited at the bar with Kevin, who was staring at something on his phone.

"You know, you really do surprise me," he said after a minute. 

"I didn't ask."

"You really think Neil is like that," he said vaguely, not quite a question. He looked up from his phone to meet Andrew's eyes. "What you said about him - "

"I was tired of you bickering with Coach about who to put first," Andrew interrupted. "You said we needed a change. There's your change."

"You were right, though." Kevin trailed off, narrowing his eyes slightly as he tilted his head. He gazed at Andrew like he was seeing something Andrew couldn't, like he was seeing something new in him. Like there was a something in Andrew that was worthy of hope. 

"Shut up," Andrew said.

"I didn't say anything."

"I know what you want to say. Shut up." Kevin raised his eyebrows but obediently didn't say anything, looking away with the slightest smirk on his lips.

"Coach told me I could tell them, by the way," he said. "Jean and Neil. I didn't tell Neil it was you, though. He thought it was a mistake at first, him being concertmaster, but I said that Coach didn't make mistakes."

"That's overly flattering," was all Andrew said as Roland set the tray of drinks on the table, tossing him a wad of cash. How Neil reacted to the news shouldn't have concerned him, but he did find it curious that a man that skilled thought he didn't deserve his position.

"See you around, man," Roland said brightly, cutting through his thoughts. Andrew stooped to pick up the tray, nodding at him, before motioning for Kevin to follow him.

They painstakingly made their way up the stairs to where Aaron and Nicky were. The glasses clattered when Andrew set them down, and they all reached for a shot.

"To a new season," Kevin said. 

"To all the new people," Nicky said, grinning and holding up his shot.

"To Kevin's dramatic ass," Aaron muttered.

Andrew lifted his glass but didn't say anything, downing his shot first before promptly taking another one. He refused to dance, so he stayed at the table as Nicky and Kevin both got drunker, eventually taking the liquid bravery downstairs onto the dance floor. Aaron stayed with Andrew, tapping an empty shot glass against the table as he stared out at the crowd.

They spotted Nicky and Kevin ten minutes later, dancing like they'd never been taught how to in their lives. Andrew looked away because it was too much, and caught Aaron stifling a half-smirk in his palm.

"Another year, huh?" he remarked, reaching for the last full shot. Andrew watched as he tossed it back, wiping sweat off his forehead before he set it back down.

"Another year," Andrew repeated.

Aaron swung his feet back and forth, the bar stool being tall enough that both their feet couldn't touch the ground. Kevin gave them enough shit for being so short, but when he'd first discovered that, he'd nearly crumpled with laughter. Andrew almost killed him for that.

He supposed he was glad he'd met Kevin in college. He supposed he was glad he had both Aaron and Nicky now, that he had a family both at home and in his orchestra. He couldn't have imagined this life when he was ten; he would've written it off as a shooting-star-wish. He would've broken his cello in half a long time ago if it wasn't for Bee's gentle perseverance and Aaron's stubbornness keeping him upright. 

His life had been a series of would-haves' and what-ifs', but he looked at his brother now, at the smile that ghosted his face more often, and he thought - no, he knew - things were better.

"I'm glad we're here," Aaron said, voicing Andrew's thoughts.

(What was that they said about twin telepathy?)

Andrew grunted and picked up the tray. "I'm getting more drinks."

"Nicky's trying to grind on Kevin. This is perfect blackmail material," Aaron said, whipping out his phone and hurrying to the railing. Andrew rolled his eyes but went downstairs, skirting along the outer edges of the crowd. Whatever his cousin was trying to do to Kevin, Andrew did _not_ want to know.

\--

Andrew plucked his cello absently, the talking around him dying down as Wymack stepped into the room. Wymack looked around at his newly assembled musicians, a blank expression on his face that cracked slightly as he took in all the unfamiliar faces. There was no denying that NYSO had grown from Wymack's passion project into something far bigger, and there was no denying that Wymack was proud of the family he'd managed to create. He liked to call his musicians "Foxes," in a running joke Matt and Dan had created in honor of where they always rehearsed, the Foxhole Hall. 

But many of his old Foxes were gone, and it was undeniable that they'd left because of Wymack's work in helping them gain recognition. Wymack's expression was a mix of muted nostalgia and angry determination, a familiar one to Andrew as he stepped onto the podium.

"Welcome to the New York Symphony Orchestra," Wymack said, tapping his baton against the stand. "I know you've heard the rumors. We're almost an entirely new orchestra this season, but that doesn't mean we're any better or worse. We run things differently around here - as long as you are here, all I expect from you is commitment, respect, and passion. That's all. You're here for a reason, you all have potential, and not one of you is exempt from the glory. This is a team above all else."

Andrew tuned out Wymack's welcome speech in favor of staring across the row at the new concertmaster and assistant principal. 

Neil gripped his violin, his fingers tapping patterns against the fingerboard almost subconsciously. His face was solemn as he gazed at Wymack, solemn and set with resolve. Next to him, Jean leaned forward as Wymack continued talking, nodding every now and then when he said something exceptionally "inspirational," Andrew supposed. 

He didn't really know why he'd nominated Neil to be concertmaster. Andrew didn't exactly care what the violins did; it didn't concern him. The lack of certainty irked Andrew, wriggled a blunt knife blade underneath his ribcage. He hated not knowing, being kept in the dark, distant from his own damn intentions.

Perhaps it was because Neil was a great mystery, the quiet wonder underneath the moon's shadow, the green light hidden among dying stars. Perhaps it was because Andrew was in need of a mystery for once, stability and family equally invigorating and softly numbing his roughed edges. 

Whatever it was, Andrew couldn't pinpoint it. He merely watched Neil hold his violin close to his chest like one would hold a gun.

Eventually Wymack stopped talking, having finished his speech. The air changed into something livelier, more excited, as he stepped from the podium to meet with Abby. She, along with Declan and Jordan went to work handing out the different parts. 

"Our first concert of the season is on September 9th," Abby said. "We will be performing Shostakovich's masterpiece, his 11th symphony."

"Starting off easy, huh?" Renee remarked, thumbing through their music as Abby went to pass it out to the violas. Andrew rolled his eyes, catching a glimpse of Jean's excited murmur and Neil's responsive smile. He glanced away, the rehearsal hall beginning to fill with noise as the Foxes began to read through their parts.

Andrew sat back and waited for Wymack to pick up the baton again.

For the next three hours, they read through the damn symphony. Even for professionals, the music was hell to play through for the first time, and by the end of the fourth movement, Andrew's brain was starting to fry. Wymack ended with a flourish, before dropping his baton with a loud clatter.

"Alright. We can work with this," he said, flipping through the score. Andrew exchanged glances with Renee, who looked up at the ceiling like she was thanking Jesus it was over. After a minute, Wymack said, "Can I hear it again from the beginning? Just the violas, cellos, and basses." 

Eventually Wymack was kind enough to end rehearsal ten minutes early. Andrew packed his cello up as Kevin stood up to meet with Wymack, ignoring the awed looks that his new section members gave him as he passed by. They'd heard of his "raw" talent, he supposed, courtesy to the journalists that reported on their performances. Andrew didn't care what reporters thought of his playing, so he ignored his section in favor of leaving the rehearsal hall.

He waited for Kevin to finish talking to Wymack, milling around the hallways with his hands in his pockets and his cello pressed against the wall. They were taking a long time, probably going over all the most terrible sections of the symphony and devising tortuous ways to improve them in the next rehearsal. Bored, Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, sticking it between his lips but leaving it unlit.

When the remaining noise of chatter faded away as the rest of the orchestra left, Andrew thought he could hear faint playing down the hallway. It was muffled by the walls, but as Andrew listened more intently, the more certain it became. 

It wasn't anything Andrew had heard before: long, drawn-out notes in a mournful tune. Desolate and masterfully anguished, a rainy funeral that no one attended. A lone casket without the flowers or headstone, without a note or eulogy.

The same motif went on for maybe five more minutes, and the novelty began to wear off. Andrew stopped paying attention, though he let the music remain a background noise. It was pleasant to listen to - lonely, but fulfilling in its emptiness.

Eventually, the music stopped. Andrew had just tossed his cigarette into the trash can when footsteps sounded around the hallway. He looked up expecting Kevin, but instead he was greeted with Neil, eyes trained on the ground as he headed for the exit.

So there was the source of the playing.

"I could hear you from outside," Andrew said, breaking the silence. Neil looked up as if Andrew's presence frightened him, his grip on his violin tightening minutely before relaxing.

"Ah. Hello." His voice was pleasant, the aftermath of rain washing over the scent of sunlight. "Andrew, right?"

"Interesting. You do know I have a twin, do you?"

"But you two are very different people, are you not?" Neil adjusted his case over his shoulder, something untouchable twinkling in his blue irises. They reminded Andrew of moonflowers and orchid petals, littering a half-trodden sidewalk. 

Something in the way he tilted his head inquisitively to the side and in the ghostly smile that tugged at his lips knocked into Andrew's bones. Breath quivering softly in his lungs, he replied, just to be difficult, "I could be Aaron."

"I don't think so." Neil's eyes narrowed as his ghostly smile manifested into something more real. Tapping a finger against his temple, he said, "Better luck next time."

Andrew stared after him as he left, treading lightly, his footsteps hardly audible even in the quiet hallway. Before leaving the rehearsal hall, Neil paused, his head tilting up. Then he glanced over his shoulder at Andrew.

"I'll see you next rehearsal, Andrew." He didn't wait for Andrew's response, only stepping through the doors and letting the sun set his hair on fire.

A hollow scoff broke through Andrew's silence. He turned away, chewing absently on the end of his cigarette. The echoes of Neil's playing scraped hauntingly in Andrew's head, as easily unforgettable as his melancholy ghostliness.

Kevin, Aaron, and Nicky rounded the corner five minutes later, stuck in conversation. Nicky broke into a grin when he saw Andrew and grabbed his cello case for him.

"Sorry for the wait, man. Let's go." 

Andrew silently followed them out, and he wished he hadn't thrown away his damn cigarette, for Neil's damn motif was all he could hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a bit of fun mixing up who says what - i'm so excited for this story ahhhh i finally wrapped up the official plot LSDJK
> 
> also i moved eden's twilight to new york instead of south carolina. sweetie's will also be in new york in this fic, but that comes later.
> 
> also ALSO it's NEIL ABRAM JOSTEN'S birthday today and i love this boy so so much, he and the foxes are like home to me and i'm just so glad i made that decision on a whim to read these books. they've changed my life and being in this fandom has been so lovely and wonderful. ahhHH i have so many feelings :')
> 
> (hell week is over and spring break is starting so MORE TIME TO WRITE. FINALLY!! and i'll actually try to update my other fics OTHER than this one oops)


	6. breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which neil makes a mistake during rehearsal and doesn't take it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: panic attack
> 
> also here are some orchestra terms i'll be usin a lot just for clarification !! and some other terms used in this chapter :D
> 
> concertmaster: player who leads the whole orchestra (think of it like a captain, while the maestro/conductor is the coach). if the conductor spazzes out or whatever, the orchestra will follow the concertmaster!
> 
> assistant concertmaster: stand partners w the concertmaster, takes over if the concertmaster is out (like a co-captain)
> 
> principals: the leaders of each section (captains of each section)
> 
> assistant principals: players who are stand partners w the principals (co-captains of each section)
> 
> sectional: individual practices for each section, not as a whole orchestra
> 
> first and second violins: the two groups of violins an orchestra is divided into (referred to as just 'firsts' and 'seconds' - seconds aren't necessarily worse than the firsts)
> 
> score: compilation of all the orchestra parts. the conductor uses this to lead the orchestra/music.
> 
> fingerings: the sequence/order of which finger to use when playing a passage (first finger = index finger, second = middle, third = ring, fourth = pinkie, thumb position = thumb)
> 
> A, D, G, E, C: the different strings of a string instrument (violin/bass: E, A, D, G and cello/viola: A, D, G, C)
> 
> open/closed string: basically open = no finger on the fingerboard, closed = finger on fingerboard
> 
> if there's anything else that's confusing be sure to ask!!

"So I was thinking maybe we could shift up here instead and use thumb position, so the next passage will be right there for us," Renee said, stretching her legs out on the carpet, but she was careful to keep out of Andrew's space. "Wymack said he wants to take everything full tempo, but it'd still be the best if we all had the same fingerings."

"Okay," Andrew said, sipping slowly from his overly sweetened coffee. The grinds he used weren't the freshest, but the sugar and cream made up for the staleness. He usually let Renee take the charge for coming up with fingerings, only interjecting now and then when he thought she made things too unnecessarily complicated. 

Marking in the fingerings, Renee sat up and grabbed her cello. She plucked the passage, brows furrowed in concentration, while Andrew leaned back and watched her work. The symphony itself was playing quietly in the background, offering convenient noise to shut out the rest of Andrew's thoughts. 

An hour later, they'd written in the fingerings for the second and fourth movements. Renee put her cello away and texted for Allison to come pick her up, before settling down on Andrew's couch.

"I heard that Aaron's going to move in with Katelyn," she eventually said as she looked around at the living room. Andrew looked over the rim of his glasses at her.

"And where did you hear this?" he asked.

"Nicky told Allison, who told me." Renee glanced at him with a bright smile. "Tell him I said congratulations. That must be amazing and terrifying."

"You live with Allison," Andrew pointed out, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. Hours upon hours of Shostakovich would leave even the greatest prodigy's brain hurting. 

"I know, but it was intimidating all the same. It's a huge life decision, but it's better with a support system." Renee knew only the gist of Andrew and Aaron's issues, but she knew about Katelyn through the latter's friendship with Allison. Instead of condemning Andrew for his actions, she'd empathized with him - or at least tried to. She had a background of foster families as well, bouncing back and forth between different homes and falling into worlds of drugs and terrible habits, until she'd been adopted by Stephanie Walker. Renee had changed her name, since she'd been named after the very mother who had abandoned her, and used her cello as a way to claw her way out of rock bottom. 

Her past was one of the reasons Andrew was alright with being her friend: she knew when to pry and when to shut up, and she knew how to push him without sending him toppling down from all the careful progress he'd made.

So Andrew leaned his head back, shrugging and indulging her in an honest answer. "What Aaron does is no longer of concern to me. As long as Katelyn doesn't fuck up, they can do whatever they want."

A sunlit smile spread across Renee's face. "We're getting better, Andrew," was all she said, before grabbing her music again and flipping it open to the first movement. 

She didn't force a reply out of Andrew - and she wouldn't have gotten one anyways. An unfamiliar tightness closed around his throat, and he nearly frowned from it. It was the feeling of liberation, of genuine goodness - of spending years looking at sunsets upon sunsets, and then one day looking out at the seaside sky - at the marbled gold and the pink blush - and realizing that he _survived_ , he was going to be _okay_ , and he could finally enjoy something _little_.

Stopping to smell the roses was never something Andrew thought he could or _would_ do - not when the world was constantly turning its back on him and shoving him onto the sidewalk whenever he stood. And nothing was linear - some days Andrew still woke up feeling the ghost of old bruises and wounds on his body, in his heart, and his head - some days the roses were more tangled bushes of harsh thorns than blossoming flowers. 

But more often than not, Andrew could stop and take in the city and people around him, and he wouldn't be filled with hatred or boredom. He could _breathe_ , and it would smell sweet. He could breathe without worrying about someone else punching it out of his lungs.

After a moment of hesitance, he put his glasses back on and finished the rest of his coffee, before moving up onto the couch to sit next to Renee. She shifted over to give him enough space, smiling warmly.

"No open D string," he said after looking over the music for a minute, "and limited vibrato."

Renee grinned at him as she marked in his words.

\-- 

The next few days were filled with rehearsals. Between three hours of rehearsing, (surprisingly) actually practicing, and keeping Bee updated often enough that it didn't seem like he'd dropped off the face of the Earth, Andrew was tired. 

As tempted as he was to just ditch the second rehearsal of the week, the prospect of Kevin's incessant bitching was enough to get Andrew out of bed.

He picked Aaron up and they drove to the Foxhole Hall after getting coffee. Slinging his cello case over his shoulder, Andrew followed his brother inside, languidly blowing the rising steam from his mug. They were relatively early, though a few other musicians were already there, including Neil. 

He was practicing some passage, stopping whenever he made the slightest error and restarting. When Andrew passed by him, he paused briefly to offer him a small smile, before resuming. Andrew didn't care for the process of practicing; he'd never really bothered to stop and actually take the time to go over one passage at a time. He relied on his perfect memory and instincts to get through the music, and it worked. Meticulous practice bored him to no end, so he looked away from Neil and started unpacking his cello.

By the time he finished tuning, most of the musicians had filed in. Andrew spotted Dan and Matt in the corner, talking while he tuned his bass. Allison and Renee were by the entrance, Renee watching with a smile on her face as her girlfriend warmed up by the percussion. Kevin graced them with his unpleasant presence, his first words to Andrew being whether or not he'd worked on this passage or that passage. 

Silently, Andrew poked the tip of his bow into Kevin's abdomen and shoved him away. Considering the way Kevin's eyes widened comically and the angry, "You're going to fucking break your bow!" that followed, Andrew had succeeded in pissing him off.

Wymack came before Kevin could say anything else, shooting his son a sharp glare before gesturing for Neil to stand. The chatter died down as the tuning A sounded, a quiet cacophony of noise as the winds adjusted their instruments. Then Neil started tuning, swiftly and efficiently, before gesturing for the rest of the strings to do the same.

Once they were done, Wymack flipped open the score and tapped his baton against the stand with finality. 

"Open your music up to the second movement," he said in lieu of a greeting. "Can I hear the violas, cellos, and basses?" 

The music was arduous, but admittedly marginally more interesting than past pieces Wymack and Abby had chosen for them. Andrew sat back, going on his phone behind his cello whenever Wymack decided to torment other sections.

"The notes aren't quite there yet. Every single note needs to be clear. I should be able to distinguish every single pitch regardless of how fast I'm taking it," Wymack said, staring pensively at the score after having the violins rehearse the same passage for a few minutes. "Neil, could you play those few bars?" 

Andrew watched as Neil did what Wymack asked, playing the passage with seemingly effortless precision at the correct speed. Near the end, his bow slipped slightly over the strings, resulting in a short, high-pitched squeak. Andrew didn't think anything of it - even concertmasters made their mistakes - but Neil froze like he'd just been shot. 

It was only a momentary paralysis, and then he carefully lowered his violin, his grip tight enough around the neck that his knuckles turned white.

Wymack hummed, nodding. "Without that squeak at the end, but do you hear his notes and how clear they are? That's what I want." He glanced at the clock, before tossing his baton onto the stand. "Okay. Fifteen minute break, then we continue from the same bar."

Jean leaned over and whispered something into Neil's ear, something like concern on his face as he squeezed Neil's shoulder. Then Kevin was standing up and heading toward them, viola still in his arms as he started to talk to Jean. Andrew watched, detached, as they conversed, only reanimating a moment later when Neil stood up, whispered something to Jean, and left abruptly.

Andrew didn't know what it was that pushed him to follow Neil. It was something stronger than gravity, more compelling than mere curiosity. Perhaps it was that look in Neil's eyes: the barely concealed fear - no, _dread_ was the better word - that came with the muscle memory of the hurt that always followed the tiniest mistake.

(He recognized that look, had even seen it before - in his brother, and in himself).

((Like recognized like, but it was more than that: broken accepted broken - because the pain of putting oneself, shattered and rock-bottom-deep, back together was fathomless bone-marrow strength, a constant war only the damaged could understand)).

"I'm going to the bathroom," he told Renee, before leaving the rehearsal hall. He had a feeling Neil would be heading to the practice rooms instead - it seemed to be his safe place - and his suspicions were confirmed when he spotted Neil rounding the corner.

Andrew watched him push his way into an empty room, the slam of the door reverberating through the hollow hallway. He waited a few minutes to see if Neil would back come out, before his feet pushed him forward until he was right outside.

He knocked once, waiting for a response that didn't come. Andrew didn't think twice before pushing open the door.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but he wasn't anticipating to see Neil curled in the corner by some empty music stands, hands clasped over the back of his head as he hunched over himself. The sound of the door closing again seemed to jar him back into reality, and suddenly his unnaturally shallow breaths were all Andrew could hear.

Personally, Andrew wasn't prone to panic attacks. His memory was perfect and crystalline, enough that his mind didn't need to conjure up any more nightmarish hallucinations - he'd lived through plenty enough. His bad days consisted of plummeting to rock bottom and feeling every bone in his body shatter, while his only outward expression of pain was blank numbness and an inability to drag himself out of bed. He'd never considered himself lucky, but after seeing his own concertmaster struggling and failing to get himself together on the floor of a used practice room for seemingly no reason, Andrew couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge in his chest.

So he crouched down in front of Neil, careful not to touch him as his breathing got even more ragged. He remembered how Bee had always used to help his brother through his panic attacks: affirmation first, then consolation.

"Neil," he said, keeping his voice soft but firm. "This is Andrew. We met before."

After a few tense moments, Neil finally unclenched his hands from his hair and looked up. Chest still jumping with uneven breaths, just on the verge of hyperventilation, he stared at Andrew with the desperation of a wounded animal.

"I - " Cut off by his own gasps, Neil squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around his chest. His breathing was quiet and suffocated, like he was afraid that if he got any louder the whole world would hear him.

"You are the concertmaster and principal violinist of the New York Symphony Orchestra," Andrew said slowly. "You are in a practice room inside the Foxhole Hall. We are currently rehearsing Shostakovich's 11th Symphony. Whatever it is that you think is happening or will happen, you are safe here."

Repetition was grounding, Bee had once told him when Andrew watched her bring Aaron back from the brink. So Andrew kept repeating himself, changing up the phrases every now and then, talking more than he was used to until he could finally sense Neil taking deeper, hiccuping breaths. 

Only then did he go quiet, sitting back and watching as Neil released his hands from the fists they were holding, sighing brokenly as soon as he could finally breathe properly. Andrew crossed his legs, resting his hands over his ankles as Neil looked around slowly as if taking in his surroundings.

"Stop doing that," Andrew said, careful to round out the harsher edges of his voice, when he noticed the way Neil kept picking at the skin around his thumb until it bled. Neil flinched and looked down at his hands, blinking a few times as if he couldn't comprehend the mess in front of him - muscle memory, cruel and treacherous, through and through.

His voice, slurred by his accent and shaky, sounded like a hesitant note played off one measure. 

"Thank you."

This felt wrong. This felt like Andrew was intruding on something that wasn't meant for him to see. Someone else's vulnerability - the sight of someone else's armor being ripped off, out of their control - tasted like a poison pill on his tongue. He felt almost feverishly sick, like an intruder.

He should have done something more. He'd just sat there and talked Neil through it, without doing anything else.

But maybe he should have just left Neil alone. He couldn't help but think he should have just let Neil fight through his panic himself. Fighting others' battles was exhausting, no matter how used to it Andrew thought he was.

He didn't think he belonged here - but the vicious, half-hidden gratitude shining in Neil's ocean eyes told him otherwise.

(Bee's words - _you are allowed to feel this way, Andrew_ \- echoed through his head).

((He'd never gotten to pick and choose his battles - they came to _him_ and tore his doors down - left his hinges hanging like snapped bones - turned his tiny windows into stained glass: broken, bloody, bashed)).

Too bad a cello couldn't patch up the various fucked-up parts of Andrew. And too bad a violin couldn't make Neil feel safe like he thought it could.

Psychoanalyzing himself, Andrew thought half-hysterically. Bee would applaud him for that.

He met Neil's eyes, as hesitant as they were, and found himself replying, "I owe you a truth." He knew Neil was smart enough to understand what Andrew meant: _I won't tell anyone what happened, but you didn't mean for me to see you either._

Because if Neil had unwittingly showed part of himself to Andrew, then Andrew would do the same. 

(He refused to take and not give - too many people had broken into his home and stolen everything he had, without putting anything back - and _he wouldn't be like them_ ).

Then Neil broke into a shaky smile, a cloudy sunrise, and answered quietly, "You owe me nothing. If anything, I owe you a truth."

Andrew blinked dumbly back at him. Any words or comebacks he had in mind dried up as he stared at that stupidly earnest look on Neil's face. Rarely did anything or anyone blindside Andrew so easily, yet Neil had managed to do so in a mere fifteen minutes.

How a man could fall apart in front of a complete stranger and then promise him honesty as gratitude, Andrew couldn't comprehend. He might leave his door unlocked more often these days, but his walls were still made of patchwork steel. 

Yet Neil seemed to think nothing of it.

Breathing deeply, careful to keep his face blank, Andrew nodded curtly. 

"A game, then," he proposed. "Truth for truth."

Neil gazed at him, his thumb still bleeding. His panic attack left his skin pale, but his smile was shakily genuine.

“Okay,” he murmured.

They stared at each other, and for one strange, unsettling moment, Andrew thought Neil was looking at _him_. Not the Andrew everyone else saw, but the real one, the one with the scars on his wrists and the one who still reflexively thought he’d lose anything good that had ever happened to him, regardless of how safe he now was.

How haunting it was, to be seen for the first time.

The moment lasted for two seconds, three more, before the loud ringing of Andrew’s phone disrupted it.

He reached into his pocket, looking away from Neil. “Hello?”

“Hey, Andrew,” Renee said warmly. “Do you happen to be with Neil? Rehearsal’s started and Wymack’s waiting for you two, but he’s having us work in sectionals for now.”

“Yes. We’ll be there.” Andrew stood up, and Neil followed suit, albeit unsteadily. “Tell Kevin to stop freaking out.”

“Oh, that can definitely be arranged.” Renee’s smile was obvious, even in a phone call. Andrew hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket and heading for the door.

He didn’t wait to see if Neil was following him. He could hear his footsteps anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> which [type of soloist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVj3_hncnZE) is each fox?
> 
> which [type of conductor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvS87skyfZ4) is wymack?
> 
> have fun <3 and also lemme know what u thought of this chapter!!


	7. there's no how-to manual for this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all good friendships start with texts (of course).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussions of andrew's past, mentions of self-harm scars
> 
> previously: the foxes + new faces settle in for their first rehearsal of the new season. neil makes a mistake in rehearsal and subsequently has a panic attack. andrew follows him and manages to calm him down.
> 
> oof it's been a month, thanks @school. but i should be good for the time being now that the intense exams are over. sorry if this is a bit shitty, but i really wanted to break the not-updating streak. <3

Andrew didn't look at anyone when he walked back into the hall. His own section was off to the side, cellos down as Renee talked them through fingerings, techniques, and musical expectations. He joined them, ignoring the curious looks a few of the new members cast his way, and watched silently as Renee finished up the lecture.

Jean gave Neil a scrutinizing look when he sat down, picking back up his violin. Andrew glanced over in time to see Jean grab Neil's hands, inspecting them closely, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a couple band-aids. He skillfully peeled them open and wrapped them around Neil's damaged fingers, wordlessly like this was a routine they'd done before.

Andrew looked away before Neil could glance his way. He knew what it felt like to be seen too soon, a roadside ghost caught in intruding headlights. He remembered when Aaron had first seen the scars lining his wrists. He'd taken off his arm bands (that he passed off as a joke to tell them apart) because they were fraying and needed replacements. Aaron had seen his sweater slip down his arm while practicing, and Andrew had been too late to adjust the sleeves again.

He'd seen the blank shock on his brother's face. The kind of look that came after seeing a dent or two, a hole or three, in an unsinkable ship. The metaphorical iceberg that had left its scars on Andrew's skin - _he_ had been his own downfall, after all - and Aaron had been blindsided by it.

Andrew always hated the pity that came after the shock. He didn't need to be coddled for being broken. He just wanted someone to see him as _Andrew_ , nothing less or more. He didn't want others to see him as suicidal, or depressed, or in need of help. He didn't _need_ that. Pity had never gotten him anything, nor had it ever healed him.

If his home was damaged, broken, scrawled over with cruel graffiti, he didn't need someone to gawk at it. He needed time to fix it, to straighten the smashed photos and repaint the chipped walls, and maybe he needed someone to help hold the ladder in place while he fixed a broken light. His scars or wounds weren't anything to stare at - they were his only, and only he had the right to decide what to do with them.

He'd expressed as much to Aaron, and consequently Nicky, and they'd taken it to heart rather quickly, to Andrew's surprise. But that didn't mean there was a one or two second lag in Nicky's face every time he saw Andrew's bare arms, the lull between normalcy where something terribly melancholy broke in his expression. That didn't mean Aaron didn't have that flash of anger in his eyes - their same eyes, where Andrew's remained blank - whenever he saw his scars.

It was a matter of falling and then getting back up, Bee told him, kept telling him. _You have peace in you, and while you don't know the directions or have a map yet, I know that you will find it._

Draping an arm absently over the shoulder of his cello, Andrew waited until Wymack emerged from his office and took to the stand again. He cleared his throat, only nodding slightly at Andrew as if to check in with him, before raising his baton.

"Alright. Sectionals are over. We have an hour left, so we can wrap up the third movement."

The sun hung in the middle of the sky by the time Wymack dismissed them with a gruff, "See you tomorrow." Unfortunately, Andrew couldn't leave and hole himself up in his apartment, since his lot had decided to go out for dinner yet again, and then probably go shopping (Allison's idea). He packed up his cello, sparing no glances at anyone else around him, before lugging it out of the rehearsal hall.

He waited outside where there were less people, leaning his case against the wall while taking out his phone.

A few minutes later, Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin left the hall. Kevin wouldn't carpool with them today, since he was going to meet with Thea at some other orchestra rehearsal as a guest soloist. Nicky flashed Andrew a wide grin and an offer to grab some coffee before dinner.

Andrew was about to follow his family when he felt someone lightly tap his shoulder. And though he'd gone farther than he'd ever thought he could, though he had years to get better and move away from his past, he still couldn't suppress his flinch and the punch that he nearly delivered right into Neil's nose.

"I'm sorry, I won't do that again," he said hurriedly, the only indication he was at all surprised by Andrew's reaction being his wide eyes. "I just wanted to - "

"What?" Andrew asked, at the same time he heard Jean call out, "Neil," from the end of the hallway.

Glancing over his shoulder, Neil said, "I'll be there in a moment." Andrew noticed he was fiddling with a piece of paper, the bandages on his thumbs wrinkled from being pressed against his violin for so long. Neil turned back to Andrew, a hesitant smile on his face. "I just - I wanted to thank you for earlier. No one, besides Jean, has done that for me." He cleared his throat, frowning at himself, and wrung his hands.

Andrew didn't say anything, only waiting for Neil to finish. He understood the difficulty of forcing emotions into words, molding complex feelings into phrases easily understandable for the average listener. (Besides, he got to miss out on Kevin's pestering on the way to the parking lot).

Neil started, taking in a short breath. He held out the slip of paper to Andrew, raking his free hand through his disheveled curls. "This is for the game," he said hastily, worrying his full lip between his teeth as Andrew slowly took the paper.

He didn't open it at the moment, only casting a glance at the hallway behind Neil. "I think your friend is waiting for you."

Neil's expression stuttered for a moment, before he nodded and smiled politely again. "I'll - see you next rehearsal, then."

The young violinist turned to leave, and Andrew's next words slipped out before he bothered to think about them.

"Neil, stop doing that to yourself." When he turned back around, eyebrow cocked in confusion, Andrew gestured toward his bandaged thumbs.

"Oh." Flushing faintly, Neil tucked his hands into his pockets. "Old habits die hard, right?"

"I know." Of course he would know.

Jean emerged behind Neil before they could say anything else, glancing pensively at Andrew for a moment before focusing back on his friend. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Neil gave him a quick smile, before turning back to Andrew. "I'll see you tomorrow. And - thanks." There was a slight hesitance before he said it, but the earnest gleam in his eyes was still there.

Andrew watched as Jean took Neil's hand and led him off, before glancing down at the paper in his hands. Unfolding it, he gazed impassively at the neat series of numbers scrawled in blue ink.

He didn't know what the unfamiliar feeling was in his chest, like a bundle of feathers unfolding and tickling his lungs. But he tucked the note away in his pocket all the same, before slinging his cello case over his shoulder and heading out after Aaron and Nicky before they could get too impatient.

\--

The first time Andrew texted Neil was that night, while he and his family were out for dinner. He blamed it on the boredom, on the fact that some idiot (probably Nicky) decided to bring up next year's concert program to Kevin and set him off on a rant about Wymack's program choices. He took out his phone and sat back, carefully typing in Neil's number by memory. He didn't bring up their truth game yet; he knew Neil would remember it anyway.

It took him only a few moments to come up with a text, just as Kevin slammed something on the table and said loudly, "I swear he just doesn't _listen_ sometimes. It's so overplayed and it's the last thing we need - "

Andrew tuned Kevin out - a product of years of practice - and began to type.

 **You:** if u r going to be the concertmaster there is something u have to know

Ten minutes later (not that Andrew was counting), Neil finally replied.

 **Neil:** Is this Andrew?

 **You:** yes

 **Neil:** What is it?

Andrew glanced up from his phone at where Kevin was busy arguing with Aaron over some stupid music-related thing. Nicky rolled his eyes and sipped languidly from his soda as he looked on. Then Andrew went back to his keyboard, lips twitching imperceptibly as he typed out his next message.

 **You:** the kevin day u see in rehearsal is not the same kevin day in real life

Neil replied only a few moments later.

 **Neil:** Oh? Now I'm curious.

Andrew was about to reply when Nicky asked, obnoxiously loudly, "Is Andrew texting someone? Holy shit. Am I dreaming?"

He shot his cousin the coldest glare he could muster. "Nicky."

"No, this is serious, because you _never_ text me back. I see your 'read at 12:30 AM' receipts, Andrew. Unless you finally murdered someone and need to coordinate an alibi, and that's what you're doing right now - "

"If he murdered someone, then it was in poor tastes," Aaron said flatly, "because Kevin is right here for the taking."

"You little piece of - " Kevin started.

"Maybe it's someone special. Is it?" Nicky wiggled his eyebrows.

"Are you a third grader, Nicky?" Andrew asked, shutting off his phone and putting it away. His cousin pouted - further proving Andrew's point - but gave up after Andrew continued to glare silently at him. At that moment the waitress came over with their food, offering a nervous smile when she caught side of Andrew's stare, before scurrying off.

They started eating, Nicky once-again joining Aaron and Kevin's conversation now that Andrew had brushed him off. Andrew stayed still, staring blankly at the table, any hunger he was feeling suddenly gone.

It wasn't because Nicky had done anything wrong, he supposed. Andrew knew his cousin always meant well, even if he did have to wash his mouth out with soap sometimes and use the thing he had called a _brain._ For the longest time, Nicky had wanted Andrew to find someone. He had Erik, and Aaron had Katelyn. Even Kevin had Thea.

As for Andrew - truthfully, he didn't know what he'd do. Nicky's incessant nagging was born from bone-deep guilt after all, guilt that he hadn't been there for Andrew when he needed it, guilt that he had it "so good" while his cousins were breaking (which wasn't quite the truth at all).

Where had anyone been when Andrew had been holding the weight of the world on his shoulders?

He didn't believe in regret, not like Nicky or Aaron did. What happened to him happened. His past was there - there was physical proof of it on his body - and it wasn't like anyone could take a magic wand and somehow remove all the scars Andrew bore. His past was a war only Andrew would fight - he was learning to let others into his army, to fight alongside him, to fight _for_ him - but he'd still taken the brunt of it himself.

Yet he didn't know why he was being bothered by all this _now_. Neil wasn't anyone special - Andrew couldn't afford to be so casual and quick like that, not after everything he'd been through.

After Drake, it had been years until Andrew could finally accept who he was. After being raped and violated by a _man_ repeatedly, it was even harder for Andrew to accept that he was, in fact, attracted to men. It had taken careful, brittle experiments with Roland after he turned eighteen and countless setbacks until Andrew could finally think about his own sexuality without feeling like clawing off his own skin. He'd felt so disgusted with himself for the longest time, so _anxious_ \- Andrew, the apathetic being anxious, how funny - that he couldn't tell anyone, not quite.

The first person he'd told was Bee, of course. Andrew knew she'd be accepting; he'd known it since she first took them in. It was a matter of his own feelings that kept his mouth shut. But he still clearly remembered what had happened that night.

They were sitting together on the couch, Nicky away on a visit to Germany while Aaron was holed up in his room calling Katelyn. Bee was doing some work on her laptop, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose as her hair was starting to fall out of her bun. The TV was blasting some commercial for new-and-improved dish soap. The screen door was half open, letting the heavy summer evening seep into their home.

Andrew didn't know what had prompted him to say it. His heart had been thudding for the past ten minutes straight, pounding obnoxiously against his ribcage, threatening to break down his doors. He kept wiping his palms against his jeans - he'd blamed it on the summer heat then, but Andrew knew it had been something else - and took another deep breath. It shuddered on the way out.

Bee had looked up from her work, gently concerned. "Andrew, is something wrong?" she'd asked.

Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he was tired of hoarding this secret, keeping it locked deep down in the basement where all his other bad memories resided. Maybe he was tired of forcing this secret to be just another _bad memory_ , another way that he was fucked up. He didn't _want it_ just because he happened to be gay, he didn't want it and he never had - it wasn't his fault, _no_ \- and that was what he'd been telling his damn self for the past however many years.

Maybe he was just sick of his heart pounding all the fucking time.

He'd sat up, clenching his fists, and looked her in the eye.

"Bee," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm gay."

He didn't know what happened right after his confession. Maybe Bee was surprised, maybe she wasn't. All Andrew knew was that suddenly she was right in front of him, kneeling down on the floor, and telling him to breathe.

"You're okay, Andrew," she said. "That's okay."

He forced himself to relax his jaw, splaying his fingers out against his knees and exhaling sharply through his nose. Bee stayed there for however long she did, gazing at him with that _look_ again.

In the end, she'd stood up and taken off her glasses. "Andrew, if you think that _this_ will be the thing that makes me look at you any differently, then you're wrong," she'd said gently, carding her fingers through his hair. "This is you. It's not anything else; it's just a part of you, and I'm afraid I can't do anything but wish it hadn't been taken advantage of in such a way. All I can tell you is that you _are_ safe now, and you can _breathe_ , I promise you."

It was a promise Andrew knew Bee was hellbent on keeping, which was why he'd closed his eyes and allowed her to lean down and kiss him tenderly on the forehead.

"I bought a pint of this new ice cream a few days ago," she said after a few moments. "Would you like to try it?"

Andrew swallowed harshly. "Okay."

They ate ice cream late into the night, and for the first time in years, Andrew thought maybe he could live in his own home again.

Telling Nicky and Aaron was easier, if only by a little bit. Surprisingly, Nicky didn't make a giant fuss over it, only asking through teary eyes if he could hug Andrew. He'd said yes, expecting to choke on his own lungs, but Nicky had only enveloped him in the most careful embrace he mustered.

Aaron didn't have much of a reaction at all, only nodding and moving on in a few moments. But Andrew didn't miss the fact that his brother had gone out later that night, returning with two pints of Andrew's favorite ice cream flavor, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Jack Daniels. They drank together and watched the sunset, and Aaron left him with a light squeeze to the shoulder.

Gradually, Andrew was learning how to unlearn his old habits. It was a painstaking process, one that he wasn't quite proud of, but it was getting him _somewhere._

"Andrew?"

Nicky's voice startled him out of his memories. Andrew looked up from his melting ice cream to his cousin, who was watching him with ill-disguised concern.

"What?" he asked, his voice low.

"You just zoned out for a bit there," Nicky said hastily. "Are you - " He cut himself off, smiling shakily and apologetically. "Your ice cream's melting."

"I saw." Andrew grabbed his spoon and started eating, shrugging off Aaron's gaze in the process. Eventually his brother resumed talking with Kevin, leaving Andrew in peace.

His phone buzzed again just a few minutes later. Andrew checked it under the table as Neil's name popped up on the screen.

 **Neil:** Maybe that can be the first truth in our game. I must practice now, but we can talk during rehearsal tomorrow, if you come early?

 **Neil:** Good night, Andrew.


	8. i'm far from good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first truths are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neil's [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QIA_S71minE) in the beginning
> 
> title comes from 'next to me' by imagine dragons!!

A couple of rehearsals in during Andrew's first year with NYSO, he'd discovered that the door to the roof of the Foxhole Hall was broken. Out of boredom, he'd decided to go up there and smoke through a couple cigarettes while watching the sunset. He figured he was breaking some sort of rule, being up there, but he really didn't care.

It had a pretty nice view, he supposed. He could almost see the entire city from there, all the skyscrapers and apartment complexes and busy streets. It was strange, seeing all the rambunctious life, especially after living so long with Bee and her peaceful almost-suburbs. 

Maybe there was a metaphor in there somewhere. But at least Andrew finally had something else to look that, something other than the ground, far below.

He was slowly getting over his fear of heights. Andrew used to climb onto the roof of Bee's home, standing at the very edge and looking down when he was still lost on how to feel. His stomach would still swoop uncomfortably if he looked down for too long, but his instinct was no longer to think about what it'd be like to slip and fall over the edge. 

Andrew didn't know when it had become a sort of sanctuary to him, but somewhere on the line, it had. And he was a little less lost on how to find his way back to himself - but he'd found himself a trail through the forest, he could see the gentle sunset through the thick canopy, and he could feel his bones knitting back together.

( _Healing_ , Bee would call it with that smile on her face. _You're drawing out your own map_ ).

Today he arrived at rehearsal an hour earlier than usual. Leaving his cello by his chair, Andrew slipped a cherry-flavored lollipop out of its wrapper and popped it into his mouth. 

He climbed the stairs leading up to the roof, only to stop when he found the door already half-ajar. Andrew was about to shove it open (the door needed replacing, it was so old) when he heard the music filling up the usual silence.

It was muffled by the door, but Andrew could still hear the barely disguised sorrow straining from the notes. He recognized the song - it was Bach's Sarabande. He'd heard a recording of it a couple years back, when he and his family had been taking a little road trip down to South Carolina to visit Bee. Kevin had finally convinced them to listen to the classical radio instead of Nicky's obnoxious rap music, and that had been the song playing.

Yet it sounded completely different here - like it had a different meaning altogether. Like it had been strung together with desperate sadness and was made of bitter melancholy. 

Andrew quietly pushed the door open, stepping onto the roof. He glanced around, only to find a familiar shock of auburn hair against the otherwise gray sky.

Neil stood by the edge of the roof, seemingly unaware of everything else around him. It was rather stupid of him, Andrew thought. He could've sneaked up to Neil off right there and the violinist would've never even noticed.

But he didn't push Neil off. Because he was ephemeral in the way he played, the way he moved and breathed, so much that Andrew thought that if he so much as even blinked, he'd miss some life-changing epiphany Neil had to offer.

And he hated that.

He stood by the door, watching as Neil finished out the song. He didn't seem to know that to do once he finished, standing still for a few moments and staring out at the cityscape like he was just comprehending it for the first time.

"Playing free concerts now, are we?" Andrew said once Neil lowered his violin. He started and turned around, his lips upturning in a shy smile when he noticed Andrew there, his cheeks flushing only slightly.

"Oh. Hi," he greeted him, almost sheepishly. "I needed a break from the practice rooms."

Andrew stepped closer, tilting his head to the side as he glanced at Neil's open case. "How'd you find this place?"

"I was just looking around." Neil shrugged, turning away to begin packing away his violin. "I'm sorry if I intruded."

"You didn't," Andrew found himself saying after a minute. He pretended he didn't feel something shift in his chest when Neil smiled that soft, grateful smile again.

"You're here early," Neil said, slinging his case over his shoulder and moving so that he could stand directly in front of Andrew. "Do you always come this early?"

"No. I just didn't want to give Kevin a ride." 

"I didn't realize you and Kevin were friends outside of NYSO. But then again, Jean says I'm the most oblivious person he knows."

Andrew stood back and peered at Neil through his glasses. A little bud of curiosity was blossoming in his chest; it had been planted there ever since the incident in the practice room, cautiously waiting for the right moment. But he could see the constrained apprehension in Neil's eyes, the way he withdrew into himself a bit as if he waited for Andrew to ask the question: _why'd you panic_?

But Andrew knew what it was like, too, to be asked of something he wasn't ready to give. He remembered hands trying to dig the answers out of his chest, continuing to do so even after he'd kept saying _no._

He wasn't going to be like that. He refused to.

So he came up with a different question on the spot.

"How long have you played for?"

Neil blinked, startled. He opened his mouth, then closed it as he stared at Andrew, as if waiting for the catch, for the punchline to the sick joke. Andrew never said anything, just gazed at Neil patiently as he waited for an answer. 

(His curiosity would have to wait. It was hard enough to climb out of rock bottom without people constantly breathing down your neck about why you were there in the first place).

"Ah," Neil murmured when he realized Andrew wasn't joking. "Since my childhood. I started when I was six. I'm twenty-three now."

"Seventeen years," Andrew mused. "Is that dedication or addiction?"

His blue eyes narrowed briefly with a mix of amusement and almost defensiveness. "I'd ask the same of you."

"This?" Andrew gestured toward the rehearsal hall below them. Neil's gaze followed his hands. "This is not dedication. This is boredom."

It was a rather old mentality, but one Andrew was still sure he kind of believed. Music had never meant as much to him as it did for Kevin, or Neil, or even Aaron. It was a way for him to stay close with his family, a way for him to pass the time rather than getting lost in memories, a way to _stop_ feeling. It was a way to lose himself to muscle memory rather than his own monster of a brain, a way to lose himself in a forest and not be afraid of coming to and finding he'd walked right into some hunting trap. 

Kevin could tell Andrew that he was talented all he wanted - but raw talent didn't erase scars, after all.

But Neil couldn't understand, Andrew could see it in his face. He was more like Kevin in that way. 

"You would've quit a long time ago, if you didn't feel _something_ ," Neil said quietly. Oh, Bee would like him - him and his easy wise words and the subtle hauntings in his heart.

Andrew tilted his head to the side. "You say that like you know me."

A smile crossed Neil's face again. "That's why we're playing this game, aren't we?"

He was a clever one, too. Andrew opened his mouth to reply, but his phone started buzzing obnoxiously against his thigh. Neil looked away, glancing over the edge of the roof, as Andrew picked up his phone without bothering to check.

"What, Kevin," he all but spat.

"Jesus, it's just me." Nicky's voice was garbled over the noise of his radio blaring. "Where are you?"

"I'm at rehearsal," Andrew said slowly as Neil glanced back in his direction.

"Okay, you're early as hell. But anyways - " Something dropped on the other end. "Shit, I dropped my wallet. I was just gonna ask if you wanted anything for breakfast. I know it's late, but we're at Starbucks right now."

"Hot chocolate," Andrew deadpanned. Neil raised his eyebrow, mouthing something about it being summer. 

"Why did I even ask? I'll see you later, cuz."

Andrew hung up without bothering to chastise Nicky about using that stupid abbreviation of "cousin" again. He gazed at Neil steadily, before saying, "We'll continue this later."

"Of course. I'm liking it already," Neil said, following Andrew on his way down the stairs. "By the way, did you look at the passages Wymack sent out last night? There was this one part I thought that maybe we could go over together, since our sections harmonize."

"Are you always this talkative?" Andrew asked as he jammed the door shut. 

"Apparently it's my job, seeing as I'm the concertmaster," Neil said slyly.

"Don't sound so smug."

"Why not? I get to have a nice view if your pleasant face all the time, too."

Andrew paused on his way down stairs, turning to stare at Neil. He didn't seem to understand what he'd said, only glancing at Andrew with an open smile on his face. "Something wrong?"

He shook his head, looking away. "Jean was right." 

"About _what_?" 

That Neil Josten was the about the most oblivious - but admittedly, handsome - fool anyone could ever meet. Jean Moreau was indeed _so_ correct.

\-- 

Their game continued between rehearsal breaks and long after they were supposed to head home. Neil and Andrew would either go up to the roof to talk, or sit on the steps outside of the hall whenever breaks were too short. Nicky would shoot him "knowing" looks whenever Neil passed them, and Andrew would mime slitting his throat, because _he didn't know or care for what Nicky was thinking._

(He supposed he should've been glad that Neil was quite oblivious, since somehow the latter had never noticed Nicky's annoying, unfounded innuendos before).

Andrew was making a growing list of the things he was learning about Neil. He wasn't even sure what about Neil made him keep going back, made him actually pull his weight in a conversation for once - maybe it was that earnest gratefulness in Neil's eyes whenever Andrew actually said something meaningful that made him continue:

 _Neil lived in London for some time with his uncle._ It explained his vaguely British accent, after all. _He received a scholarship offer from Julliard, which was the only reason he went back to the states._ He would've been more than happy to stay in England for the rest of his life, he'd said, though he wouldn't have met Jean if he hadn't accepted the offer. _Jean was his best and probably only friend who'd ever stuck with him that long._ Andrew hadn't asked Neil to elaborate on that one.

The list kept growing. Sometimes it was filled with more trivial things, like how Neil's teacher was some guy named Hernandez, or how his uncle was marrying his boyfriend Adrian next month. But Andrew kept track of it all regardless.

They were sitting outside on break during their last rehearsal before the first concert of the season. Andrew smoked idly, listening to the background noise of musicians practicing the same passages over and over again, while Neil absently plucked a tune on his violin.

Andrew waited until he finished his cigarette to ask the next question.

"Why the violin?"

Neil's eyes crinkled in a slight smile as he parroted, "Why the cello?" When Andrew leveled him with an unamused look, he looked away and shrugged. His voice was quieter when he replied. "My mother used to play the violin."

"Used to."

"She taught me most of everything I knew." Neil's gaze took on a glassy look, one that Andrew knew far too well - the anguish of watching a past memories play out, messily layered together, the screams of nostalgia and pain dulling everything else into an unbearable hum.

Andrew almost changed the subject, before Neil picked up the violin resting in his lap and held it up to the light. "This? It's actually her old violin. I've been playing on it for years."

They were approaching deeper waters now. Andrew knew it was too soon to venture further, and from the way Neil kept withdrawing within himself, expression uncharacteristically distant, it was better to drop the subject altogether. Carefully tucking away his questions for the future, Andrew cleared his throat to get Neil's attention again.

"Ask me another question."

He blinked, startled, before coming to. "Ah..." Frowning, he absently stroked his fingers over the strings, plucking them softly. "About what you told me back on the roof."

Andrew gazed at Neil blankly, waiting for him to continue. Neil gave him a half-smile, before continuing, softly, like his words weren't meant to draw blood, "Were you telling the truth? You really think - _this_ \- is nothing?"

"I don't lie," Andrew said slowly as he understood Neil's question. "If you don't believe me then that's your own problem."

There was a sad gleam in Neil's eyes, like the brightness of a candle just before being extinguished. 

"The way you just - brush your whole career off. I don't know. It's like you're on a really special fall, one where you're just going through the motions until the end just hits you."

Andrew blinked. He felt like someone had punched him in the chest. "If I asked to be psychoanalyzed," he said, "I would've asked my mother."

Neil shrugged, tucking his violin delicately under his arm. "I never had a choice," he said quietly. "I always had to care, always had to be perfect. The alternative was always worse." 

Andrew opened his mouth, about to ask Neil what said _alternative_ was, when Abby interrupted them by stepping out of the hall.

"Break's over. Get back to your battle stations," she said with a pleasant grin. Andrew only wanted to throttle her a little bit. 

He turned back to Neil to ask something, ask anything, but he only gave Andrew a soft smile before following Abby back inside. 

He didn't pay attention for the rest of the rehearsal, Neil's words echoing through his mind, as a heavy weight settled in his chest. He was slowly gathering enough pieces to put together Neil's puzzle, finally - and the end picture seemed much more broken than he'd thought.

\--

Of course it was after the next break that Nicky decided to open his stupid mouth.

"Say, do you have a girlfriend?" he asked, leaning against the wall. "Outside of rehearsal, you're always with Jean, but I know Jean has a boyfriend. A hot one, too."

Andrew rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to throttle his cousin. He was about to look away, but the look on Neil's face caught his attention. He was fiddling with the straps of his case, staring at the ground like he wanted it to swallow him whole.

What Andrew noticed, unfortunately, Nicky noticed as well.

"Oh. A boyfriend, then? Do you swing the other way?" he asked, taking Neil's silence for awkwardness. He glanced in Andrew's direction, tossing him a disgusting wink, like he was being helpful or something. "If so, I know a fellow bartender who might - "

"Nicky, shut the fuck - " Andrew began to say.

"I don't swing," Neil interrupted, though the way his voice trailed at the end made him sound uncertain. Nicky hesitated for a moment, before grinning again.

"Whatever you say," he said cheerfully. "Hey, I'll see you later. Maybe you should come to Eden's with us sometime. I'll introduce you to said hot bartender."

Neil shrugged, shifting around uncomfortably, scratching at the skin around his thumb. Andrew noticed, and mentally noted it down - a nervous tic. Nicky had already left, and Andrew was about to drop the whole topic altogether, when Neil spoke up again - quietly, though, like it was a secret he wanted only Andrew to hear.

"I don't have any preferences at all," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jean thinks I'm asexual, or at least somewhere on the spectrum. I've just - I've never really been interested, I guess. I - couldn't."

Andrew gazed at him steadily. He said, "That's okay too, Josten."

Neil stared at him for a moment too long, before laughing breathily and lowering his head. "You're one of the first people I've told who hasn't tried forcing me in either direction."

Andrew's chest clenched strangely at the thought. The gratefulness in Neil's expression was a little too much just then. He shrugged and replied, "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not that heartless. Allison might tell you otherwise."

"Matt's told me about a few of her bets."

"Matt loves you, doesn't he," Andrew said. He'd been cursed with a Matt in full motherly mode the few times the entire string principal section had gone out since the start of the new season. Neil and Jean hadn't been there for any of the "bondings" or dinners, but Andrew had been saddled with the misfortune of hearing Matt ooze about how much Neil sometimes looked like he needed a big hug and how much he wished the "adorable little thing" would join them for one dinner. 

It was truly quite awful.

Neil raised his eyebrows, his previous apprehension gone. "Oh, no. We've talked just a few times, but I don't think he _loves_ me."

"You're underestimating him greatly," Andrew replied. Neil only smiled in disbelieving amusement. To Andrew's dismay, small dimples appeared in both of his freckled cheeks, further accentuating his quiet beam.

He was spared from any further anguish when Neil glanced down at his watch. "We should probably head back now, before we're late again."

"I wouldn't mind making it a habit," Andrew let himself say. And if he'd said it just to see those subtle dimples again - well, he wasn't going to tell anyone.

The car ride back home was full of Nicky complaining about how "cute" he and Neil would be together with Aaron rolling his eyes all the way to Europe in the backseat. Andrew gritted his teeth and purposely swerved the car a little too much to the left.

"Shut up, Nicky," he growled when his cousin started cursing colorfully.

"Oh, come on. You never talk to anyone this much. Not even us!" 

"Nicky, stop talking before he crashes the car," Aaron groaned.

"It's a Maserati, why would you purposely - "

Andrew swerved again and cut someone off. 

"Okay, okay, point taken," Nicky said, frowning at Andrew. "But you have to admit they're cute together, Aaron. Come on."

"There's nothing between us." Andrew thought about Neil's words, about everything he was learning about him, about how he didn't swing. His grip on the wheel tightened as Nicky gave him an almost pitiful look. 

"Whatever you say, Drew," he finally relented.

" _Don't_ call me that."

"Why? It's endearing."

"It makes him feel too soft," Aaron supplied wonderfully.

"Aaron, I take back any good wishes I ever bestowed upon you and Katelyn."

"That's not a lot, honestly," Aaron said, popping his gum.

Andrew didn't say anything else until they neared Aaron and Nicky's apartment complexes. He parked roughly and slammed the button to unlock the doors. "Get the fuck out of my car."

"Love you, cuz," Nicky called as he nearly tripped over himself to get out. Andrew honked at him just for good measure, and allowed himself some pleasure in watching his cousin nearly drop his viola. 

It only eased some of his annoyance. Only a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i highkey forgot if i ever mentioned their ages in this fic and am too lazy to go back and check lolzors. sorry bout the ending, i was literally going crazy and needed a way to end the chapter. 
> 
> thanks for reading lovelies!


	9. muscle memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the foxes have their first concert of the season, and andrew finally asks neil about what happened in the practice room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: referenced/implied child abuse. mention of past panic attack 
> 
> unedited so that immediately exonerates me from any mistakes i have made (jk pls let me know if u find any <3)

The concert hall on September 9th was packed, not to mention completely sold out.

It was a fact that Kevin made sure to rub in Andrew's face for whatever reason the entire week leading up to the concert, as if that would make him any more enthusiastic than he already was - not at all. But between the seemingly endless rehearsals and hype surrounding all the new members in the orchestra (mainly Neil), Andrew was just ready for it to be over. 

He was backstage, letting Renee adjust his tie and collar, when his phone began vibrating in his back pocket. Bee's name glowed brightly on the screen as he answered it, Renee dropping her hands with a soft smile and leaving him to find Allison by the percussion section. 

"Bee," he said, making himself comfortable on the floor beside his cello case.

"Hey, Andrew." Her voice was warm as always, enough to drive the chill out of the overly air-conditioned backstage area. "How have you been?"

"Alright," he answered easily. "Call time is soon, so I only have a few minutes before Kevin will get on my ass again."

Bee laughed pleasantly at that. Sometimes Andrew didn't understand why she found the things he said so funny, especially when he said them with little to no inflection. Maybe it was the fact that he even said them in the first place. Or maybe she just had an Andrew-sense of humor.

She said once she caught her breath, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to this concert, but I should be able to come to your next one. Maybe we can have a meet-up for everyone."

Andrew narrowed his eyes even though she wouldn't be able to see. "Meet-up," he repeated blandly.

"Yes! For all of your orchestra friends and such."

"You're making me sound like a child, Bee," he said.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

(The thing about Bee was: Andrew could _always_ tell when she had that smug look on her face whenever she bested him in an argument. Even when he couldn't see her).

((He hated it)).

"Do what you want. I don't care," Andrew eventually said. Bee made a thoughtful noise.

"We'll talk later about this, Andrew," she promised. "I'm just suggesting ideas, but I really would love to meet your orchestra mates."

"Okay." 

"I get that you have to leave soon. Call me when you're finished and let me know how it went, okay?" 

"Someone will be taping it," Andrew said, just for the sake of being difficult. But Bee was immune to that at this point, only brushing it off with a soft chuckle.

"Of course, but I want to hear it from _you._ And Aaron. Tell him to call me, too. He seems to have turned off his phone already."

"He broke it a couple days ago and hasn't gotten it fixed yet," Andrew supplied.

"Well, tell him I said good luck as well. I'll talk to you in a bit, Andrew. Play well, okay?" He could hear Bee's smile in her voice, and it probably should have bothered him how instinctively comforting it was. But it didn't. 

"I can't do anything else anyway," Andrew said. "Bye, Bee."

He hung up just as Kevin, true to expectations, approached him. A pleasant surprise, however, was Neil, who was right behind him.

"Get up," Kevin said harshly. "Dress rehearsal, remember?"

Andrew stared at Kevin long enough that it became unnerving. The violist just threw his hands up in the air, exclaiming, "Why do I even bother. Just don't be late," before storming off. Neil gazed at Andrew curiously, his violin tucked safely underneath his arm as he swung his bow back and forth.

"I tried to get him to be less harsh," he offered as Andrew finally forced himself to stand up. 

"Kevin and 'less harsh' should not be in the same sentence." He quickly unpacked his cello, running a finger over the strings to check their intonation. Neil laughed quietly, almost under his breath, at his remark. He stood around even as the rest of the room emptied as the musicians filed onstage, plucking a soft tune on his violin as Andrew leaned over to grab his bow.

"Why are you waiting?" Andrew asked quietly when Neil didn't leave. The young concertmaster shrugged, an oddly open expression on his face.

"There's still a few minutes left," he said. 

Andrew eventually finished making all his adjustments, all under Neil's intent gaze, before he started heading out the back door. Soft footsteps following told him that Neil was right behind him. 

(Their truth game was, Andrew would begrudgingly admit, probably one of the only highlights of their long, drawn-out rehearsals. Neil was just unique that way. He was a _blink-and-you'll-miss-it_ sunset; a handful of all the undiscovered nooks and crannies of New York City; an _every-time-is-different_ song).

((Curiosity was a ghost, long-dead, but Neil brought it back in everyone. It kept haunting Andrew's home, coming back to visit more often now - and Andrew would look over his shoulder and see it there, and he'd let it stay right there)).

He sat down in his seat as Neil joined Jean across from him. Wymack came out only a few moments later, still dressed in a regular shirt and jeans. 

Marching onto the podium like he owned the place, Wymack swept a searching and determined stare across the whole orchestra. Then he picked up the baton, tapping it once against the stand.

"Let's do Shostakovich some justice, shall we?"

\--

After dress rehearsal came the concert, almost too quickly. 

Andrew sat with his cello leaning across his left shoulder, his left hand tucked in his lap while the other held on to his bow. Wymack had told him numerous times to stop "leaning on his cello like it was his only sober friend at a bar full of drunks" during concerts, so he refrained from doing so. Chatter and anticipation filled up the whole venue, washing over Andrew in some sort of numbing wave. 

He caught Neil's eyes a couple times while he was silently warming up. And every time, without fail, Andrew saw Neil's lips twitch in the slightest of smiles. 

It was strange. People's first instincts, when they saw Andrew, usually weren't to smile. They were to run, to _look away_ , because _don't mess with_ Andrew, for he might just hate you. Not to look at him without judgement, to _not_ uproot him - rip him up from the ground - at first sight, to look _happy_ or pleased at his presence. Andrew didn't really mind what Neil did, but it didn't make his openness any less unnerving, or _disquieting._

(There was a quote from a book that Bee had given him a long time ago).

_We accept the love we think we deserve._

((Rejection, fear, _bone-deep rejection._ Andrew was getting better at accepting more things, yes, he was farther than he ever thought he'd be, but that didn't mean the muscle memory was wiped clean)).

Old habits died hard, he supposed. Stains always remained all the walls, but only a little bit. 

Andrew looked away from Neil, from his small smile, to the audience spanning out in front of them. He figured there were a few reporters here and there too. People liked to report on NYSO for some obscure reason.

Then the floor beneath him began to rumble as the rest of the Foxes began to tap their feet, signalling Wymack's entrance. Andrew didn't join in, though he noted the way the entire audience erupted into applause almost immediately.

Wymack emerged from backstage, this time dressed in a pitch black tuxedo. He waved at the audience, only stopping when he reached the podium and got on it. Once he raised his baton, everything fell silent as Andrew sat up once more.

It was the same routine as before, the same rehearsed bars. He wiped his mind clean of any thought and absently made sure to count the rests for his cues.

It was all muscle memory from there.

\--

"Good concert, all," Abby said with a wide smile as everyone filed backstage to the roar of applause and whistles. "You all did amazing."

Andrew ignored her in favor of immediately putting his cello away, before slumping on the ground and rubbing his eyes, suppressing a yawn. He had time to kill before leaving. Aaron was off with Katelyn somewhere and so was Nicky with Erik, but Andrew was saddled with driving both of them home, so he could just make himself comfortable on the floor.

The concert was exhausting. It sounded - harsh and insane and bloody, which was what it was supposed to sound like. They were playing a Shostakovich symphony, after all. But it tired Andrew out, and he'd probably always be tired after concerts no matter how long he played the cello - because it wasn't like he could _enjoy_ them like Kevin did, or Neil, or anyone else in the goddamn orchestra. 

It would've been a sad thought to anyone else, but it was just normality for him.

He stretched out his legs, unbuttoning his collar and loosening his bow tie. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, Andrew reached for his phone and pulled up his texts with Bee.

 **You:** tired, but concert went well. call u when i get home.

A few minutes later, his phone pinged with Bee's reply.

 **Bee (mom):** I'm so glad, Andrew!! Rest up if you're tired. I'd rather you call when you're feeling good too. 

He texted back a quick good night before tucking away his phone again, just in time to see Renee and Allison approaching him. 

"Hey. Good work today," Renee said with a bright smile while her girlfriend looked on. "Allison and I are going out tonight, but if you're up for sparring this weekend, I'm free this Sunday evening."

"Maybe," Andrew said. Yet Renee grinned like he'd just waxed poetic to her. 

Allison tilted her chin up and sniffed pompously. "You're not too bad, Minyard," she said as Renee took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Don't let her fuck you up too much, 'kay? Spare us Kevin Day's wrath."

Andrew made a show of cracking his knuckles ( _stop doing that, you'll give yourself arthritis,_ he could imagine Kevin saying), while Allison guffawed and his friend laughed softly. She waved goodbye at him before heading off to the backstage exit with her girlfriend, her cello case jingling slightly as she walked.

The room filled with quiet chatter as the orchestra began to leave, one by one. Andrew began to play with his phone out of sheer boredom, tossing it up and down as he stared blankly at the wall. 

Eventually, he heard light footsteps approaching him. He glanced up to see Neil walking toward him, but didn't say anything until the concertmaster had sat down across from him and set his violin case in his lap.

"You did really well," was the first thing he said. Andrew gazed at him steadily, at the way the dim backstage lighting cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting his freckles. 

He didn't say thanks or accept the compliment, only shrugging and continuing to throw his phone around. Neil looked content to just sit there, watching him with that stupid, barely there smile on his face.

"I have a question," he piped up when Andrew leaned back and let his head knock against the wall. He glanced at Neil, silently letting him continue.

He shifted slightly, rubbing at his hands (Andrew noticed there were new bandages around his forefinger and pinkies). "What would you have done if you didn't play the cello?"

It was innocent enough of a question, but for someone like Andrew, it truly was quite unimaginable. 

His relationship with music was never admirable, never emotional, but he really didn't know where he'd be without it. Bee had suggested it as a yet another way for Andrew to recover, as a safe place for him to go to whenever things became too much. Music, as much as it sometimes bored him and was tedious, was a niche now, almost a second home. The one place where Andrew could lose himself, reveal all the most vulnerable and broken parts of himself, and have someone call it _beautiful_ instead of _ugly, pitiful, twisted._ The _only_ place Andrew's muscle memory wasn't completely tainted with pain and hands and blood. 

(The only tragic thing was: Andrew didn't care _quite_ enough to really love it).

((A rose grown from rotten ground could never be the same as a rose that had been nurtured and watered from the very start)).

So it was easier not to let himself feel, not to make the final step and let himself truly break in his music - it was easier to just let whatever showed show. To Andrew, whatever little happened - it was already enough.

He looked up from where he'd been staring at his hands to meet Neil's gaze. He was clever, after all. Neil knew what kind of question he was asking, and he knew what answer he'd be getting out of Andrew.

"I don't know," Andrew finally said, waiting for the smugness to cross Neil's face. The _I told you so_ , the _so music really_ does _matter, doesn't it?_

But it never came. Neil only smiled softly at Andrew's answer, like he was tucking it away for safekeeping, to poke at some other time.

"Me either," he admitted earnestly. "Maybe I would have picked up Exy instead, you know? I like to run, so maybe I'd be useful there."

"Mm."

"I don't know, I can't see myself doing anything other than playing the violin, though." Neil shrugged, tapping his case lightly. "My mother probably wouldn't have let me do anything else anyway."

"Why not?" Andrew asked after a long minute.

"I don't know that either." Then he smiled again, just slightly. "Maybe in a parallel universe I would've played Exy. If you believe in parallel universes."

Andrew shook his head. Parallel universes. They were curious, sure, but he didn't believe in them, just like how he didn't believe in regret or guilt. Instead, he shot back, "Do you?"

"It's an interesting thing to think about." Neil's eyes twinkled as he tilted his head to the side, like he was thinking, before adding, "I think you would've been a goalkeeper."

He raised his eyebrow. "Any particular reason?"

"You seem like the kind of person who I would trust to be my last-resort, if needed," Neil said thoughtfully. "But you don't seem like you'd like running, either."

"Thank you," Andrew said dryly, and Neil laughed breathily.

"It's not an insult."

Sitting up, Andrew tucked away his phone to meet Neil's gaze. The backstage air conditioner switched off for a second, before humming back to life.

"I'm going to ask you something," he said as Neil looked on steadily. "Do not answer if you don't want to."

"Okay," he said after a short, contemplative pause. "Go ahead."

"What happened that day that made you panic?"

Andrew tried to phrase the question as nicely as he could, or as nicely as someone like him ever could. He figured he should just ask now so it stopped dangling over their heads like a dark rain cloud - but that didn't stop him from noting Neil's barely concealed flinch.

He shifted his weight, fingers absently tracing the straps of his violin case. There was a distant glaze in his eyes as he thought of an answer, lips twisting in an absent frown. He was quiet for so long that Andrew eventually contemplated taking his question back anyway, to save it for another time, but Neil blinked after another minute and offered him a shaky smile.

"I made a mistake. And I was never allowed to make mistakes," he said slowly. Letting go of his case, he began to fiddle with his shirt cuffs. "If I did, he would punish me."

Words, words, they were just words. But they managed to worm under Andrew's ribs and take painful root in his heart nonetheless. 

_He would punish me._

Andrew's mind, treacherous as it was, didn't help at all. He couldn't help but remember the cruel, picture-perfect memories of his brother, trembling with two black eyes and covered in bruises, ugly shades of lavender. He couldn't help but remember his own abusers, the hands that tore at his clothes and broke open his skin whenever he stepped slightly out of line. And he couldn't help but remember the bitter bite of shame as it ate him alive from the inside out, burning like a poison pill dissolving into his system, cold like the way he still suffocated even though his veins still ran red. 

(It wasn't his fault - it was _never_ his fault. He knew that, and even if he didn't, Bee had told him countless times already. Still, it took time and arduous work to eradicate the poison from his bloodstream, to detox and start healing).

He swore he could see the same conflicts in Neil's eyes, in the awful push-and-pull of guilty and not-guilty, of _it's-not-on-me_ and _his-hands-are-all-over-me._ And Andrew wished he could reach out and wrench that bone-marrow shame out of Neil, wished he had the proper words to tell him that he didn't need to panic over making the tiniest of mistakes anymore. 

But scars were scars, and even though they healed, there would always be some phantom pain lingering behind.

Andrew stepped closer when Neil began to waver. "Who is _he_?" he asked, not delicately. Anger was never delicate or beautiful. "Your teacher?"

Neil stared at him as he tried to understand Andrew's words, before his eyes widened when he realized what he'd implied. 

"Hernandez? _No._ " A laugh tore through his shoulders, unusually bitter-sounding. "He never hurt me. Uncle Stuart made sure of that." Then he shrugged, worrying his lip between his teeth. "It was more muscle memory than anything, Andrew. I know Wymack isn't like that."

"That doesn't make what happened any less valid." He had more to say - so much more - but neither the knowledge nor eloquence to put it into words. Neil's expression fell, like Andrew had just punched right through his _it-was-nothing_ facade, as his mouth twitched. 

The door slammed suddenly, tearing through the moment, and Jean came backstage. There was another man behind him, about a head shorter with golden hair and an awfully blinding smile, who practically shouted for joy when he saw the two of them.

"Neil! Oh my God, there you are!" He practically ran up to Neil and threw his arms around him from behind, squeezing him in a tight embrace. Andrew started, but instead Neil just broke out into a small, shivery smile and reached up, squeezing the man's arms as the latter rested his chin on the top of his head. 

"Hey, Jeremy."

"You guys were amazing, _all_ of you. Christ, you even make me want to quit teaching band."

"Don't do that," Neil said, as Jeremy pulled back slightly. Then softly, he added as an afterthought, "We need more teachers like you."

Jeremy - distantly, Andrew remembered Jean mentioning having a boyfriend named Jeremy - grinned fiercely. Then he turned toward Andrew, almost blinding him with the force of his smile. 

"And you're Andrew Minyard! _Gosh_ , you were so great. Renee tells me about you all the time."

He blinked slowly at the mention of his friend, crossing his arms and standing up. Somehow Jeremy didn't seem deterred by his - Nicky called it - "resting bitch face" and stuck out his hand to shake.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'll admit I don't know much about string instruments, but your dynamic control and - "

"Jeremy," Jean interrupted gently. "Kevin told me earlier he really wanted to meet you, remember? He's out back."

"Oh! I forgot." Standing on his tiptoes, Jeremy kissed Jean on the cheek. "I was just so excited. Thank you, love." He turned toward Neil, holding his hand out. "Come with me, bud?"

Neil let Jeremy take his wrist, casting one glance at Andrew - he couldn't tell _what_ the expression there was - before he followed Jeremy out the door. It swung shut, leaving Andrew alone with a suddenly surly-looking Jean.

"Nice to know you have a puppy dog as your boyfriend," Andrew commented dryly when Jean continued to just stare at him. 

"What're you doing with Neil?" he asked, ignoring his remark.

If that didn't sound possessive, Andrew honestly didn't know what did.

"I beg your pardon," he deadpanned, much to the lack of Jean's amusement.

"Look," he said, crossing his arms. "You have to understand that Neil is - he's different. I haven't seen him talk to someone this easily or openly since - I don't know. Hell, it took him a while to even open up to me. He doesn't trust easily, even though he looks like a 'cinnamon roll.'" Jean scoffed as he said that, and Andrew silently cursed Nicky and Matt for their creative descriptions of Neil.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Are you giving me a shovel talk?"

Jean glared at him hotly. " _No,_ " he said vehemently. "I am telling you this because you don't know what he's been through. You don't know how much he's had to sacrifice just so he could get to where he is now, just so he could continue playing.

"So when you act like you don't care about your place, when you act like _none_ of this matters to you, like it's all insignificant and easily brushed off, it rubs the wrong way." Huffing angrily, he pointed at Andrew accusingly.

"You have an attitude problem. You keep this up," he almost snarled, "and you _will_ end up hurting him."

Anger flickered deep inside Andrew's chest at Jean's words. He wanted to snarl back that he wouldn't hurt Neil, that he never had any ulterior motives with him, that he'd rather _die_ before he took the bruises on his own skin - metaphorical and physical - and left them on someone else. To think that Jean could believe Andrew, who _knew_ the _pain_ of being uprooted and torn from the ground-up, would allow himself to hurt others, pissed him off, for lack of a better word.

No longer in the mood to be remotely diplomatic, Andrew tilted his chin up in a silent challenge, saying lowly, "Funny. From the way you talk about him, it's almost like he's a baby and not a grown man who can take care of himself."

Jean's eyes widened almost comically. "Is it so wrong to wish that my best friend could have a _break_ from all the hurt for once?" he all but spat. The question hung tensely in the air between them - the answer was _no, it wasn't wrong at all_ \- but before Andrew could say anything else, the door opened up again as Jeremy and Neil stepped back inside.

"Hey," Jeremy said, his smile falling slightly when Jean and Andrew both swung cold, unamused glares in their direction. "Oh. Did we interrupt something?"

"No. You're fine. We're just talking," Jean said after a short hesitation, his hostility switching off into something warmer. Andrew barely held back a scoff. 

"Okay." Jeremy glanced between them, unsure, before turning back to Neil and ruffling his hair. "Kevin was a delight, let me tell you that. You almost ready to go?" 

"Yeah." Jean left, but not before casting one more glare over his shoulder at Andrew. It would've been hilarious, how protective the man was over Neil, if it wasn't so personal. 

Andrew watched as Jean and Jeremy linked hands, leaving Neil behind with a, "We'll meet you at our car." The concertmaster stared after them, before turning to squint at Andrew.

"What did Jean do?" he asked, wringing his hands. "He didn't say anything bad to you, did he?"

"We just had a minor disagreement," Andrew found himself saying, a small bud of calm worming its way back through the frustration in his chest, when Neil's tension broke at his words with a relieved sigh. 

"He gets really defensive sometimes," Neil murmured, running a hand sheepishly through his hair. "I'll talk to him about it, whatever it was."

"Whatever." Andrew picked up his own cello case, tugging the straps over his shoulders.

"Are you staying this late?" 

"I'm waiting for my brother and cousin." 

"I think I saw them outside," Neil said lightly. "We could walk out together?"

Andrew was fine with just being reticent as he followed Neil out of the concert hall, letting the words flicker weakly and then die in the hollows of his throat immediately. They were halfway down the hallway, the phantom noise of Shostakovich's symphony ringing through the walls and in Neil's quiet humming, when Jean's pestilent voice buzzed around Andrew's head again.

 _You keep this up, and you_ will _end up hurting him._

(If there was one thing Andrew absolutely refused to be, it was to be like _them_ ).

Neil was pushing through the exit doors, letting the warm night air rush into the air-conditioned hallway, when Andrew finally let some of his thoughts slip through into existence.

"Thank you for telling me." He didn't say what for, but Neil's startled smile - a breath of fresh air after hours underwater - told him he knew anyway.

"You too, Andrew," he said, somehow brighter and softer than the moon. "Text me when you get home safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey i know it's been a month i'm still very much intent on working on this fic (i love it too much ok) But!!!! the big bang fic is literally sapping all my writing ability LOL. i rly want it to be good and to challenge my writing style in that fic so i've kinda been putting this fic and pwjh on the backburner, but that's only temporary! my bb fic is nearing the home stretch, so hopefully i can begin updating more frequently soon. but this is just an explanation for y i'm being so shit w updates on ao3. love u guys and hope u enjoyed the update <3!!


	10. lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone discovers jean's secret talent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: vague discussions of andrew's past - nothing explicit.
> 
> neil and jean's [duet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=widDAQKdlUA)

"Hey. I know we just went sparring yesterday, there was a new restaurant that opened in the plaza by the hall. We could also go over the music Wymack sent out there - I don't know if you got that yet."

"I did," Andrew replied, idly flipping through the pile of sheet music he'd just printed out. "And okay."

He could practically hear Renee's smile through the phone as she said warmly, "I'll meet you there, then. My treat?"

"Okay." He hung up and flung his phone away. It just barely missed his cello's bridge where it was lying by the couch. Andrew leaned back, his glasses threatening to slip down his nose. He was still sore from their gym session yesterday, stretching out his legs with a sigh.

It had been a couple days since the concert. Andrew hadn't bothered to read any of the articles or reviews that had come out since then, though he was sure they were just fine and dandy. He'd been more preoccupied with Jean's stupid warning and not-practicing and _Neil._

They'd ended up texting for half an hour after the concert ended. As promised, Andrew let Neil know when he got home, and Neil apologized on behalf of Jean. It was alright - Andrew much-preferred talking to him over listening to the random soap opera that was playing on his TV that night.

He tried not to think _too_ much about Jean's words as he kept talking with Neil about the most trivial things: practicing, the next concert, random hobbies. He was torn between feeling offended and pissed-off, and - _dare he say_ \- insecure. 

Andrew knew he'd never deliberately hurt anyone unless they deserved it. Neil Josten sure as hell didn't deserve it. But there was a difference between knowing and executing, for _accidents_ were still a thing and there was a far higher chance Andrew would misstep and fuck something up. And he _knew_ that he couldn't go through life treading so lightly, because gentleness and softness were still foreign to him, but he just couldn't help but entertain the possibility that _yes_ , at some point he'd end up hurting those around him, even if it was by accident. He walked life with a sort of brutal irony: he broke only the things that came at him first, and he knew by heart how to repair all the damage, self-inflicted or not.

(No, he couldn't control everything that ever happened in the world. If he _could_ , it'd be a far fairer place).

((Not pleasant, per se, but fair)).

Andrew was just learning what home was, just learning how to walk without suspecting everyone behind him would shove him onto the ground. He was just learning how to stop counting his breaths, how to stop counting down the days till the next injury or hurt. And he was _just_ learning that he was stuck in the throes of some sort of _chaotic_ healing, but it was still _healing_ nonetheless. 

And these were all lessons that took years to understand, after all.

He knew what Bee would say if she was here. _Don't be so hard on yourself, Andrew,_ she'd insist. _There's only so much of you that can go around._

But it didn't mean he couldn't try.

Andrew liked to say he didn't care about a lot of things - which he supposed still held true - but sometimes he was afraid. Of the dark, of heights, of losing his things. Of hurting the only real family he had.

But then again, nothing was ever so _delicate_. Andrew wasn't fragile, nor was he indestructible, and neither was Neil, or Nicky, or Aaron, or even Bee.

People were strange and haunting that way, he supposed. Ironic and resilient. 

There wasn't much he could do about it.

 _Buzz_.

Andrew jolted only slightly when his phone began ringing. He reached over and grabbed it, squinting when Renee's caller ID showed up again.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Andrew. Are you here yet?" 

He glanced at the clock. Half an hour had passed while he'd been lost in his mind. 

Cursing, he got to his feet, nearly knocking over his cello. He fucking _hated_ it when that happened - fucking stupid introspection. "No, I'm on my way," he lied as he shoved his feet into his shoes then grabbed his sheet music.

"That's alright," she said. "I can order for you now if you want. Chocolate milkshake and a cheeseburger okay for you?"

"Okay." He slammed the door shut, jamming his keys into his pocket. He could hear Renee's smile through the phone. 

When he finally got to the restaurant, his food had already arrived. Renee grinned and waved him over, her sheet music already laid out neatly on the table. Andrew sat down, shoving a straw into his drink and sipping while she started going over the fingerings and bowings. 

It was a welcome distraction from his mind. He let Renee take over the conversation, listening to her voice and letting it wash out all the harsher thoughts - even if it was for just a moment.

\--

Rehearsals resumed far too soon. Wymack had ungraciously decided to move rehearsals to the morning, since some orchestra had booked the Foxhole Hall for the week. It wasn't like Andrew needed an alarm; he'd already woken up and had been staring at the wall for the past hour before his phone started ringing with Kevin's inevitable call.

"Hello? Andrew? Are you at rehearsal yet?"

"No. There's still an hour."

"Well, you're getting there early today."

"Why should I?"

Kevin huffed. "I need to go over the passage with you, and I know you're not doing anything right now."

"No."

"You've probably been awake for the past hour just staring at the wall, Andrew."

He paused, narrowing his eyes. "Got friends in the FBI, Day?"

"What - _Jesus_ , just come, okay? I'll see you later." Kevin hung up with a resounding click, and Andrew threw his phone across the room for good measure. His case kept it from breaking, though he was sure it was only a matter of time before he shattered it somehow. 

He pushed himself out of bed after a few more minutes, dressing in a hoodie and skinny jeans. He didn't bother to put in his contacts or fixing his hair before he brushed his teeth and headed out, tugging his cello on like an unenthusiastic high schooler pulling on a backpack.

He dropped by Nicky and Aaron's places to pick them up, then they stopped at Starbucks to pick up coffee - _it's way too fucking early for this shit_ , wise words from Aaron - before finally arriving at the hall.

Andrew didn't wait for Aaron or Nicky before heading up the stairs, the straps of his cello case bumping against his thighs as he entered the rehearsal hall.

He spotted Neil's violin case already there, open and empty on his chair. Andrew looked up to see the concertmaster and Jean standing by the grand piano in the corner, murmuring together. Their heads snapped up when the door opened, and Neil glanced over his shoulder. He smiled brightly when he saw Andrew, giving him a tiny wave, while Jean seemed content with just glaring at him. 

Andrew didn't do anything, only sitting down in his own chair and unpacking his cello. Aaron settled down in his own chair, pulling out his phone probably to text Katelyn, while Nicky paused.

"Hey, guys," he said as Neil plucked at his violin strings, tuning them. "Jean, you play the piano?"

"Somewhat," Jean replied after a short pause, like he was trying to dissect Nicky's cheerfulness for any ulterior motives. When he didn't find any, he jabbed his thumb in Neil's direction. "I'm his unofficial accompanist." 

Nicky gaped. " _Somewhat_?" he repeated in disbelief. "Are you working on anything right now?"

Jean exchanged glances with Neil, who shrugged. "Ständchen by Schubert is one of them," Neil said. "We're performing it in a charity concert next week."

"Think you could show us?"

Andrew paused in tuning his cello. He didn't see Neil's face, but he still saw the way he turned toward Jean like they were having a silent question. A few moments later, Neil glanced back at Nicky and nodded. 

"Sure."

They took a moment to set up, Jean playing a few random chords on the keyboard as Neil smiled softly, tucking his violin between his chin and shoulder, resting his bow over the strings. After a few more moments, Jean finally started playing the melody, his fingers flying gracefully over the keys.

With a jolt, Andrew recognized the song they played.

He’d heard it after he’d first moved in with Bee, when he had still been harsh around the edges and wrapped head-to-toe in barbed wire. Bee had a large collection of CDs, and sometimes she would play them throughout the night as she worked and cleaned. Andrew had been in the living room, nursing a cup of homemade hot chocolate, trapped in the fading clutches of a nightmare, when the song came on.

Bittersweet. A fleeting tune, strung out with fading passion. A regal and selfless lullaby that tugged at Andrew’s barbed wires and settled over him with a warmth that wasn’t from the hot chocolate. 

He hadn't known how to describe it. None of his other foster homes had really felt like - _home_ before. The only one that had barely brushed the surface was the Spears, and Andrew had nearly torn himself to pieces trying to keep them.

He remembered wondering distantly as the music swelled, slightly distorted from Bee's old radio, if this was what real families felt like. Sitting in the living room, drinking freshly made hot chocolate, wrapped in a hand-knitted quilt - embraced by foreign lullabies.

Even now, his chest still ached hollowly from the memories. Then, it had been some sort of bone-deep nostalgia that kept Andrew awake, long after the lullaby had ended. Now, he recognized it as the strange, broken longing for the house that could have been a sanctuary. The _homesickness_ that gently took down his walls and replaced the bleeding wounds with chrysanthemums.

( _Did you know?_ he remembered Bee saying the first time he'd stepped into her garden and saw her working. _Chrysanthemums symbolize hope_ ).

((And Andrew knew that - just like how he knew sometimes the tickle in his heart wasn't from the scab he kept picking at, but from the flower garden slowly taking root; and certain melodies could be borne from home, not pain)).

But it wasn't like Neil played the same exact way the recording did. He played with a sort of quiet rage manifesting in a delicate melody. His eyes were closed, his lips just barely upturned as he skillfully dragged his bow along the strings.

Yet Andrew's chest still hurt. And he swore that if anyone looked at him right now, they'd be able to see something broken, right behind the cracks in his mask that were starting to show.

(And he decided - right there - that he _hated_ Neil).

((Not because he did anything wrong, but because he knew how to build paper walls and paper homes out of vulnerability and tender pain; because he knew how to reach into the chests of anyone who ever listened to him and dig up their oldest wounds without unearthing their graves)).

Andrew stood up abruptly. The chair made a loud screeching noise as he did so, before he headed out of the rehearsal hall as quickly as he could, without it looking like he was running. He didn't bother looking back - the music didn't stop, though he did hear Neil's bow skitter across his strings in surprise.

The door closed softly, though Andrew was almost tempted to slam it, and he stepped outside. It was cloudy and cold, and Andrew's fingers trembled slightly as he put a cigarette between his lips and struggled to light it. When he finally got it to work, he sucked in a breath large enough that it made his lungs hurt - dimly, he realized it had been a while since he'd last smoked - and barely stifled a cough. 

He smoked until the memories of the song faded into a distant clang of noise and history, before dropping the flickering cigarette to the ground and slamming his foot harshly against it. Then he lit another one, sitting down on the steps and tilting his head up against the gray sky.

A few minutes later, he heard the doors slide open and shut again. Footsteps approached him hesitantly, and Andrew opened one eye to see his cousin settle down next to him.

"Hey." Nicky glanced at the cigarette clenched between his fingers and frowned. "You okay?"

"Fine." Andrew hoped his curt tone was enough to put Nicky off, but of course, it only drew him in more.

"Their playing wasn't that bad, right?" He was only half-joking. When Andrew astutely ignored him, he stupidly added, "It's okay to be jealous, you know. When I had my first crush it was _hell_ \- "

"I do not have a crush," Andrew interrupted sharply. "And I am not fucking jealous."

Nicky held up his hands. "Hey. I'm always here if you need me. Love advice and everything."

Andrew held up his cigarette. "I will literally shove this up your - "

"No no, that's really not necessary." Nicky got to his feet with a shit-eating grin on his face, before it fell away. "But seriously, if you need to talk, I'm here."

"Leave me alone." He didn't need to say it twice before his cousin finally got the message. Nicky sighed - it sounded sad - before turning around and heading back inside. 

Andrew closed his eyes again, throwing the cigarette away. Then he held his quivering hands up to his mouth, digging his fingernails into his palms. He let the brief pain bite through the heavy, suffocating haze of his emotions, focused on it until he couldn't think about his _feelings_ any longer.

He sat there by himself until he spotted Kevin walking toward him. He paused when he spotted Andrew, frowning slightly.

"Why are you out here?" he asked.

"Because I can," Andrew replied quietly. Kevin's eyes flickered down to his two used cigarettes, crushed completely, on the ground, before he scowled.

"Smoking again? I thought you were quitting."

"Relapses happen, Kevin." He didn't mean to be so outspoken, but he felt so jagged and _interrupted_ just then, that he couldn't help it at all. "But you wouldn't know."

He didn't take offense, only raising an eyebrow, unamused. He knew Andrew understood Kevin had his own share of problems as well, and he knew that at a basic level, Andrew respected that. But for a long minute, neither of them said anything, only staring at each other. 

Then Kevin sighed, shrugging. "I'm not here to argue. Come inside, okay?" 

He didn't wait for Andrew to follow him before heading into the rehearsal hall. Andrew sat outside for ten more minutes, before his skin started to prickle from the cold and something else, and he forced himself to stand up.

He couldn't meet Neil's eyes when he sat back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a bit on the short side but i rly wanted to update!! 
> 
> next chapter tho: long!! a duet!!! and REVELATIONS!!


	11. hiccup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew and neil clear up some things. banter ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: just discussions about each other's pasts, specifically andrew's time in foster care (implied past child abuse)
> 
> andrew and neil's [duet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ddaXUBOVRIY) [pretend the second cello/background violins are neil's parts]
> 
> last chapter: neil and jean play standchen, a song andrew remembers from the first few nights after he was adopted by bee. he subsequently flees from his emotions.

Andrew came in for the next rehearsal, keen on avoiding anyone and everyone after his brief - it wasn't a _breakdown_ or anything - _something_ the other day. Just a subtle fracturing of his mask that he'd haphazardly managed to tape back into shape that night, a quiet unearthing of a memory that was one step too close to nostalgia for Andrew's tastes. 

But of course, he was early to rehearsal, and of course, Neil was the only other one there.

Pointedly looking away from him, Andrew set down his cello and yanked open the metal straps. He busied himself with loosening his bow and tightening it, then loosening it again just for the hell of it. Then he ran his finger across his strings, plucking each of them to check their intonation. _Oh,_ he never noticed how _fascinating_ the wooden patterns on his cello were - 

"Andrew?"

Neil's voice was quiet as he spoke. Andrew hesitated for only a moment, before resuming his shenanigans, slowly picking up his cello and tugging out the endpin. 

His silence only served to egg Neil on.

"Why'd you run yesterday?" he asked.

It was an innocent question, but the weight of it was more than enough to freeze Andrew. He forced himself to meet Neil's gaze - it was softer but blanker than he'd expected. 

"I didn't run," Andrew finally said after a long minute. 

Neil's lips twitched slightly. "I'm a runner," he said. "I know the difference between leaving and running."

"Oh?" Andrew ran his bow roughly across the strings, letting the harsh sound reverberate through the empty hall. "Good for you."

"What was it?" 

(It was the unstoppable force fighting the immovable object. Neil was persistent if not anything else, and if Andrew had to choose one thing he was good at, it was avoidance).

((And Andrew could've done this forever, just avoid, avoid, avoid - but the whole _reason_ he'd left in the first place was _because_ Neil could move him. Somehow, he managed it, where almost everyone else failed)).

Because somewhere along the line, Neil somehow figured out how to wriggle under Andrew's armor without completely uprooting him. And he knew how to move him without toppling him over - just gently enough that Andrew started stumbling over his own feet.

It was disquieting, that was what it was. The way Andrew wanted to hate Neil for doing what he did, the way he just couldn't find it in him to do even that.

He started tuning his cello, playing with a couple harmonics, before he finally answered.

"That song you played," he said quietly. "It was personal for me."

Neil's blank expression cracked, and his shoulders slumped in almost-relief. He slowly nodded, accepting Andrew's answer as _just that_ , and looked about ready to drop the subject. The tension between them split apart and began to fade away, and Andrew was fine with just leaving him with that answer, when he remembered - 

The way Neil had willingly bared open his wounds to him, the way he'd given Andrew some of his most tender parts, without expecting anything in return. The way he _respected_ Andrew's unspoken boundaries and - for some reason - _trusted_ him.

It tugged uncomfortably on Andrew's chest, leaving some sort of hollow-but-full ache between his ribs. 

(It was only fair that Andrew showed some of his wounds too - not just for Neil's sake, but for himself as well).

((He refused to take more than he gave, after all)).

Andrew astutely ignored Neil's surprised expression when he started talking again.

"My biological mother couldn't afford to raise twins. Or she didn't want to. I wouldn't have known," he said. "She left me to spend my childhood in the foster system. At some point I stopped counting how many families I'd gone through. 

"But eventually I was reunited with my brother, and someone finally adopted us for sure. Her name's Bee." Neil smiled softly at her name, and Andrew continued. "She likes classical music. She played that song for me the first couple of nights in, after I had a nightmare." Andrew paused, the taste of _vulnerability_ bittersweet in his throat. "It was the first time I realized what home was supposed to feel like."

When he finally looked up again, all he could see was himself reflected in Neil's irises. Honesty left him shaky and breathless, but that aching understanding in Neil's eyes, that bone-marrow-deep _I-get-you_ \- somehow it felt worth it.

A slow smile ghosted across Neil's lips, full of some sort of relieved warmth Andrew couldn't put his finger on.

"I'm glad she found you," was all he said.

Andrew was tempted to leave the conversation right there, but he found the words slipping out before he could even second-guess himself.

"Me too."

Neil's face could have lit up even the darkest nooks and crannies of the world. 

And Andrew, ever so immovable, thought maybe it wasn't so bad that he could be nudged a little. Something in his chest gave away, like something in him had just shifted back into place. Like one of his broken bones had finally righted itself. 

It was an unnerving feeling, but at the same time, he was starting to unlearn his old habits. Pushing away others because he was afraid they'd get too close. Counting down the days until the other shoe dropped. 

Accepting some of the good things without fearing the _catch_ would snatch him by the ankle and yank him over, breaking down ever pillar of progress he'd ever made from rock bottom.

Good things, which he figured now included Neil. Somehow.

(He made Andrew hesitate).

Honesty curled gently into Andrew's shoulders, holding him in a tight grip, but not enough to suffocate him. The words prodded against his ribcage, insistent to be let out. 

But _God_ , was it weird to talk about things like this with someone other than Bee.

She'd always told him not to push himself, to put his own limits first. To never say more than he wanted to, to let the words grow on their own.

 _The flowers may take root and bloom at their own pace,_ she'd said, but it's the florist who decides when to pick them in the end.

At any rate, Neil seemed happy with him. He was much more relaxed, his face much more open and less apprehensive. He played a tune on his own violin, looking away from Andrew as they let the conversation tuck itself away into their own memories - for later.

A few minutes later, the concertmaster glanced at him again as he lifted his bow to tighten it.

"Did you practice?" he asked lightly. Andrew stared at him, unimpressed. They returned to normalcy so quickly that he was surprised neither of them got whiplash - though he supposed that was for the better.

"No, Neil."

"Not to be like Kevin, but - "

"I wouldn't start out any sentence like that," Andrew said.

" - aren't you performing the next concerto?" The corners of Neil's eyes pinched with his familiar smile. His irises glowed like planetariums. 

"Apparently so."

"You ever performed a concerto before? In concert, I mean."

"No." 

"In practice?"

Andrew thought about being difficult, but his mouth and brain must've been on separate dimensions that day, because he replied, "Sometimes."

Neil tilted his head to the side. "Who was your teacher?"

"I am self-taught."

His blue eyes widened, and his lips parted on a soft gasp. "Seriously?"

Andrew raised his eyebrows. 

"I mean, I knew you had raw talent," Neil said, "but - you're bloody _fantastic._ "

He said those words like he didn't even know how much they threw off someone like Andrew: the impermanent reject, the rock-bottom-resident, the aching pessimist. He said them like they didn't mean half the world, like they were things Andrew had become _used_ to.

But he wasn't.

"I'm not as talented as you think I am," he said quietly - because kindness was a two-faced thing, and sometimes it was soft like flower petals and steamy hot chocolate, and other times it was a gentle hand shielding a knife behind it. Andrew's knee-jerk reaction was always: defend himself against the latter.

Neil tilted his head to the side, understanding twisting his eyes in a way that made Andrew transparent. "I don't believe that."

"Shut up."

Smiling slowly, Neil said, a challenge, "Prove it."

Andrew glared at Neil, but lost the force of it at the earnestness in the concertmaster's face. He instinctively wanted to pick up his cello and throw it at him - anything to wipe that expression away - but there was something about Neil so infuriatingly _curious_ that to back away was to concede defeat. And Andrew refused to lose anymore.

He snatched up his bow, squinting at Neil, whose shit-eating grin was out in full force now, and gave it a twirl. He set it across his strings, and began playing without thinking.

The melody that came out was familiar. Andrew was only a few bars in when he realized with a pang: it was Neil's concert solo, the very first time they'd met each other. The same fleeting, sorrowful tune, the type that could pull tears from empathetic eyes and chills from the skin - except it was different.

Deeper, and hollower.

No, Andrew couldn't play with the richness or fullness Neil could. He played like he was empty and the only thing inside of him was muscle memory and notes. Because he'd grown up that way: void, with a crater for a chest. Just because he knew how to turn his sharpest, ugliest wounds into music, that didn't mean he knew how to make the noise, the scars, the hurt _delicate._ Not like Neil could. 

He took the piece's strength, took its core, and carved it out. Sculpted it until it looked like a horrible facsimile of his own fragmented self, until it was small enough to fit inside the space of his chest. Until it could fit inside his home: a vase glued back together, a picture frame righted, a tattered wall covered up in paper. He shrank it until he could hold it in his hands, until it was something only _he_ could touch. 

He turned the red song into a deep, somber blue: the color of the void night sky shouting back over the rooftops, the color of the darkness clinging to his bone marrow. Twisted, grave, and sober, like violets and hyacinths and midnight. Bleeding, then healing, then bleeding again.

Until - 

Neil started playing too.

Andrew's head jerked upward as his playing faltered. Neil's lips were upturned in the ghostliest of smiles, glowing like gold and amber as the morning light filtered in through the window.

He played almost the same way he did that night of the concert: swaying with the phantom pain, brows creased down the middle in concentration. 

But where he'd been red - bright, earnest, weeping like crimson against snow - he was softer. Quieter. Like fallen cherry petals floating over an upturned body. The aftermath of something great and something tiny: the stutter in the heartbeat, the clenching of the throat.

And together they were something undefinable.

Neil's lightness and intensity somehow managed to complement Andrew's darkness and emptiness. It was some yin yang bullshit, some cliched sort of thing that Andrew figured only happened in unrealistic fairy tales and bedtime stories he'd never heard - 

Yet there they were. Playing like they'd known each other for years.

Andrew couldn't stop staring at Neil ever since he'd looked up. Neil looked right back at him, met his gaze with a burning air. And suddenly Andrew was glad he was playing, because he thought he could feel his hands start to shake.

When the song finally ended, they sat in ringing silence for the longest minute Andrew had ever endured in his life. He stared intently at his cello's bridge, clamping a hand over the strings so they stopped echoing, and forced his head up.

Neil's smile was small but glowed. 

_What the hell._

"You just can't help proving yourself wrong, can you?" he teased lightly. Andrew's throat was tight and he fumbled clumsily for a comeback, for _anything_ , but the quiet was interrupted by the sound of the doors sliding open.

"Hey. You two are early." It was Abby, holding a tray of coffee with her sunglasses perched atop her head. Andrew snapped his mouth shut, setting his bow on the music stand with a little too much vigor, while Neil waved at her.

"Hi, Abby," he said.

"Getting a head start on the day?" She smiled warmly at the two of them as she set the drinks on Wymack's stand. 

Neil's gaze flickered briefly to Andrew, before he replied, "You could say that, yeah."

Abby glanced between them, curiosity thinly veiled in her eyes, before she beamed again. "I met Wymack and Kevin in the parking lot. They'll be here in a few minutes. Care for a coffee?"

"It's fine."

She slipped off the podium just as the doors opened, letting their coach and resident annoying violist in. "Call me if you need anything, okay? There's literally a Starbucks a couple blocks away. Hey, David!"

"Morning," Wymack answered gruffly. He raised an eyebrow at Andrew. "You must really want tenure, getting here so early."

Neil's eyes glowed with amusement, and they were all Andrew could fucking focus on. He muttered, "Whatever," much to his coach's bemusement, before setting his cello aside. 

"Alright, Minyard. Josten, now that you're here, come into my office, will you? Gotta go over a few things for your concerto."

To his stunted relief, Neil nodded and followed Wymack out. Andrew astutely ignored everything Kevin had to say, whipping out his phone and putting in his earphones, blasting the most raucous music he had as loudly as he could.

Anything to get rid of the sweet sound of Neil and his smile.

\--

By the time rehearsal finished, Andrew was more than fine with not picking up his cello for another week. He'd finished packing it away and had made more sparring plans with Renee when Matt came over.

"Hey, Neil, Jean!" he called, catching their attentions. "Come and get dinner with us?"

Jean hesitated, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to find a catch in Matt's invitation. Neil's startled gaze slid over to meet Andrew's, a slight flush covering his cheeks for some reason. Andrew stared back at him, digging his hands into his pockets so no one could see how he clenched his fists. 

After a moment, Neil adjusted his violin case over his shoulder and glanced at Jean.

"Okay. Where?" he said after a short pause. Matt looked like he'd just won the lottery.

"Boy, let me tell you. This place - _literally_ the only reason I can get through rehearsal," he said, rolling his bass backward so he could join Neil at his side. "I literally _dream_ about their burgers. Dan can attest to that."

"I can," she added as they all began to leave the hall. "Jean, while my boyfriend steals your bestie, why don't we get to know each other?"

It was almost funny how out of his element Jean looked, though Dan didn't seem to mind. They were joined by Renee a few moments later, and slowly, the tension began to seep out of Jean's shoulders.

They somehow managed to all pile into the same booth they normally used with some semblance of elbow room remaining, squeezing in Jean by Kevin and Neil next to Andrew. Allison's reasoning: the small were stackable and must be together.

They ordered their food and sat back, the more talkative of the group taking over the conversation while the rest absorbed their voices. Andrew fiddled with his phone as he leaned back, careful not to accidentally brush up against Neil in the process.

The concertmaster leaned over slightly after a few minutes. "Do you do this often?" he asked quietly. 

"During season, yes," Andrew replied.

"Oh." Neil hunched over, like he was trying to make himself smaller. His relaxed attitude gave away into something sadder, an aching sentiment that clung to his eyes and turned them into a grayer shade of blue.

"What?" Andrew kept his voice low so that no one else noticed. Neil chewed on his lip, deep in thought, as he tapped his fingers against his elbows.

"I don't know," he finally said. An almost self-deprecating smile crossed his face. "I didn't know this is what - musicians did, outside of orchestra." 

His confession would've sounded boring and stupid to anyone else listening, but Andrew knew what Neil really meant: that he'd never been taught that music wasn't all about competition or excelling - that there was some sort of love in it, too. That fellow musicians could be more than just orchestra mates; they could be friends too.

His understanding was so keen it hurt a little, just then: unbelonging was a terrible feeling, but it would haunt people like them for a long, long time, before it finally decided to rest. The knowledge scraped him raw - especially after their earlier duet.

Andrew sighed, then nudged Neil lightly with his foot under the table, grabbing his attention.

"You can't escape now," he warned quietly. "Matt wouldn't let you."

Neil stared at him with wide eyes filled with some molten, twisted warmth in them. Andrew looked away after a few moments because it was almost too much.

Then Neil's whisper.

"Thank you."

"I didn't do anything." It was a lie and a truth at the same time.

Their food arrived a few moments later, and Andrew reached over to steal one of Nicky's fries when he wasn't looking. Kevin broke away from whatever conversation in French he was having with Jean to point at Andrew with his fork, narrowing his eyes.

"Andrew," he said. "You know we're performing a cello concerto next, right? _Saint-Saëns._ " 

"Sure."

"That means _you_ are performing it." 

"I am?" Andrew asked flatly, just to be difficult. "Kevin, why don't you tell me again for the sixth time in a row?" Beside him, Neil stifled a laugh behind his hand.

"Take a fucking nap, Kevin," Aaron grumbled, stabbing his salad with such vigor Andrew was surprised his fork didn't break. 

"Stop saying that," Kevin snapped. "And I took a fucking nap before rehearsal."

"Well, take a-fucking-nother one."

"You know what - "

" _Guys_ , can we try _not_ to get kicked out?" Dan pleaded.

"Think Andrew's proved multiple times he's one of those elitists who doesn't need to practice every day," Matt said, though his tone was light enough that it was clear he was joking. Andrew felt the faintest flicker of amusement when he took in the frustration roaring in Kevin's eyes, taking a slow sip out of his milkshake while slowly raising his eyebrow at the violist.

"I'm going to fight you all," Kevin declared into his glass of vodka.

"Andrew and Renee are the only ones here with fighting experience," Aaron said. "Speaking of fighting, how's your relationship with Thea?"

"Jesus Christ, Aaron," Nicky mumbled while Kevin choked on his drink. Even Jean started smiling. Neil couldn't quite stifle his laughter completely this time, and it bubbled between his teeth like a summer breeze. Andrew paused mid-sip, looking over at Neil, eyes crinkled and gleaming with mirth and a tentative, _maybe-this-could-be-home._

It wasn't much: just the briefest hiccup in his heart, then an acceleration of his breath. That soft smile on Neil's face, it was a tripwire, setting off some unfamiliar sort of feeling in Andrew's chest. It took root between his ribs, filling in the empty spaces with spring and unfamiliar warmth.

It was bizarre and fluttery enough that Andrew was half-tempted to reach inside his chest and tear it right out before it could grow into a full garden.

But then he caught Neil's eyes again, caught the gentle, worldly glow in his irises between his hands like a precious firefly, and Andrew knew he wouldn't be able to do it.

He may have had self-destructive tendencies before, and he'd torn himself open many times without a second thought, but this was different. _This_ \- 

He was afraid it might hurt too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chap: thanksgiving! bee's in town! fun stuff
> 
> hellooo my peeps it's been a hot minute i know i'm sorry i'm terrible, but i got swamped with school and shit. but!!! my big bang fic is done (it's published now, check it out!!) and i can hopefully focus on it more.
> 
> [we'll survive, you and i](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678801/chapters/36426711) is the name of my bb fic, it's jean/neil, and it's a fun ride. sorry about the promo but i poured my heart n soul into it and i'd love it if u guys gave it a chance <3
> 
> that is all. see ya next update my buds xx


	12. home sweet home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bee is in town for thanksgiving, and has the brilliant idea of inviting all andrew's orchestra mates to his place. soft family times follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings!!! andrew sneezes and aaron finds it fuckin hilarious!!
> 
> also unedited bc i wanted to get the update up so !! let me know if there are glaring mistakes!!

Andrew supposed he was glad things didn't change much after Neil and his improvised duet together. They continued their truth games, often well into the night when neither of them could sleep. Sometimes Neil would even send him little video clips of himself practicing, his face only half illuminated by his stand light as he played scales over and over again. His only explanation: _maybe they'd motivate Andrew to start practicing more too._

Andrew had called Neil after getting _that_ text, ignoring Neil's amused greeting with an unamused, "Why?"

"I thought you were annoyed with Kevin getting on your ass all the time about practicing."

"Doesn't mean I want to hear you either."

"I'd beg to differ. I think you like it." Andrew hated the snark in Neil's voice. Hated the way it twisted pleasantly in his stomach like warm honey.

But that was just how things went. And it probably should've disturbed him more how _good_ normalcy felt, how _settled_ everything was. 

(But Neil - he was _good._ Andrew's family was good.

And Andrew didn't want to sabotage himself as much anymore).

((And he'd never admit to himself that he _was_ afraid of the missteps, of fucking things up, of disrupting the still-fragile layer of elusive maybe-contentment he'd managed to find,

But yet again, he'd never been the type to tread lightly. Andrew walked the world with deliberate steps and shouldered the weight of it like he'd been born with the strength to do so)).

Eventually October flew by, and Andrew somehow got roped into dressing up for their annual charity Halloween concert by Nicky. Wymack always donated all their proceeds to the various child abuse prevention centers throughout New York, and the rest of NYSO got a kick out of not having to dress formally for once. 

Nicky thought it would be hilarious if he dressed up as Kevin. He'd gelled his hair until his natural curls were all gone, and stole some of Katelyn's makeup (they'd all gathered at Andrew's apartment to get ready) to draw frowning lines on his face. Andrew and Aaron decided to dress as Wymack (which was far too ambitious in and of itself), so they changed into office shirts and jeans, donned baseball caps, and called themselves their coach. 

His cousin took one look at him and tsked, before throwing two pairs of black platform Converse at them.

"It's to make you look taller, cuz," he said with a falsely sympathetic look.

"Fuck you, Nicky," Andrew growled even as he begrudgingly slipped them on.

"How did you just have those ready?" Aaron questioned as Katelyn stifled a laugh.

Kevin wasn't at all amused by Nicky's costume choice, though Wymack ended up guffawing when he saw Andrew and Aaron's platform shoes. Neil bit back a grin as he approached Andrew backstage.

"You're taller than me now," he observed quietly as Andrew leaned over (with some balance issues) to pick up his cello. 

"Not a word," Andrew said when he noticed the half smile snagged between Neil's teeth. The concertmaster was dressed in a too-large flannel that kept slipping over his shoulders, and a dark shirt and jeans, along with a pair of what looked like old combat boots.

"I'm a cowboy," Neil said when he noticed Andrew looking him over. 

"A pathetic one."

"I didn't have much to work with." Glowing with a gentle kind of amusement, Neil tucked his violin underneath his arm. "Jean's the Grim Reaper though."

"Fitting."

Neil laughed breathily, and their conversation was interrupted when Abby came backstage and called them to get ready. Andrew rolled out his endpin while Neil went off to join Jean again near the front - he looked fucking ridiculous with his black cloak and hood - and a few moments later, Renee joined him.

"Hey, Maestro," she greeted him, struggling to adjust the cardboard halo that kept flopping over her forehead. Andrew grunted in response, which he supposed only added on to his Wymack impression, and she chuckled brightly.

They ended up performing Shostakovich again and sold out the entire concert hall.

\--

October slipped away into a chillier November. Andrew woke up on his birthday to the sound of rain pattering against his windows, feeling oddly - okay.

_Twenty-four._

It was the strangest number, too big and lofty for him to really comprehend. 

Andrew had never thought he'd get here. Never thought he'd be able to wake up on his own terms, to the sound of rain cascading against the windows of his own apartment in New York. Never thought he'd live to have a family - a _real_ one, a family that would sacrifice as much for him as he would for them - to watch his back whenever he got a little too tired. Never thought he'd wake up without the weight of an entire abyss upon his chest.

He had always thought himself Atlas - bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, fracturing underneath the sheer force of it but still _holding on._

But now he was just - Andrew. Broken but significantly less broken than he was before, even if the scars and chasms were still there. 

It was like the raging seas in his chest had calmed. Like he was finally at home within himself - another year of owning himself, _happy birthday_ \- and there was a spring wind blowing through his open windows, and his garden was starting to flower, _just a little_ , and he was _okay._

Peace was a kind visitor, and this time, Andrew dared to hope it would choose to stay for a long while.

He lost track of how much time had slipped by while he stared out the window, tracking the watery light of the rain as it fell in rivulets against the glass, before his phone began to buzz against his nightstand. Andrew rolled over, picking it up and staring at the screen through bleary eyes. 

"Hi Bee," he greeted, curling up under his covers.

"Hey, Andrew." Her voice was soft, like usual, and warm enough that it could've blown out some of the cold in Andrew's shitty, overly air-conditioned apartment. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," he replied after a short pause. He never really knew what to do whenever Bee wished him a happy birthday - back when they lived together, it'd always been a quiet occasion. Homemade cake, a night watching vintage films in the living room, and counting stars. Then again, he'd never really had many good birthdays until he was taken in by Bee in the first place. But like many things, she was teaching him the process of reclamation.

She just laughed softly. "Do you still have rehearsal today?"

"Unfortunately." But Andrew had woken up early enough that day that he'd have a few hours to kill before he had to leave. 

"Mm. Busy with the concerto?"

"I've learned it before, so it shouldn't be hard." Pausing, Andrew picked at the corners of his blankets for a few moments before continuing, "Did you call Aaron already?"

"I'm calling him later. I know he was out late last night, helping Katelyn with her studies and everything." Andrew hummed to show he was listening, and Bee sighed contentedly. 

"You know," she said, "I was going to tell you this earlier, but I thought I'd tell you on your birthday, just for a little surprise."

"You know I hate those."

"You'll like this one."

Andrew grunted. "Tell me."

"I've finally gotten all my break days together and I'll be taking the week off for Thanksgiving. I'm coming up to New York to visit you!" 

Something oddly warm and oddly _relieved_ sprung within Andrew's chest, like he'd just loosened up in all the places he hadn't known were tense before. Just like that, his home seemed a little more full - 

Though Bee didn't need to know that. She already understood it from the beginning.

He closed his eyes, trying to follow his mother's instructions from back when he and Aaron were teens: to not shove his emotions aside out of muscle memory, but to pick them up and carefully tuck them away for examination later. 

It worked a little. And he let himself feel warm. 

"I have a guest bedroom," he said instead. "It's a little small."

"I don't mind at all." He could practically sense Bee's smile through the phone. "I'll teach you and Aaron how to cook a turkey - I can't believe I've never thought of doing that. Speaking of which: why don't we invite your orchestra colleagues as well?"

"No." Andrew's answer was immediate, but Bee was undeterred. 

"I'd love to meet them. They've made such a big impact on both you and Aaron's lives, after all. It'll just be for the night, and it's more for me. Think you could be okay with that?"

Pursing his lips, Andrew ran a hand through his hair. "Only if you make me that cake I like," he compromised after a few moments. 

"Wonderful. Of course." Bee went on to fill Andrew in on some of the new things happening around her work, all the new kids she was helping. Andrew was just content to listen to her voice, comforting and familiar enough that he relaxed into the sheets and his eyelids began to grow heavy.

"I know you hate this sappy stuff, but I'm just going to say it for a quick second, alright?"

"Mm."

"I'm very proud of you, Andrew. You and Aaron both," she said warmly, _genuinely._ "You both have come so far, and you both have done so well. I'm very lucky to have you two as my sons, you know that?"

Andrew swallowed harshly, the ache of being found so strong it almost threatened to choke him. _Home_ \- it curled gently around him, squeezing him tightly but not enough to hurt, and he never wanted it to leave.

He murmured a long minute later, when he finally thought he could talk, "And I, you."

There was a soft exhalation on the other end, before Bee said softly, "Do you have rehearsal soon?"

Andrew glanced at the clock. He had to pick Aaron up in forty minutes. "I should probably go soon."

"I'm sure. Traffic's hell with rain, especially." Something shuffled in the background, resembling the sound of a pot being set down on a stove. "I'll talk to you in a bit, alright, Andrew? And I can't wait to see you again."

"See you, Bee." Andrew shut off the phone after hanging on for a few long moments, tossing it aside and pushing himself out of bed.

He tinkered around in the kitchen for maybe ten minutes, heart still flushed with Bee's voice and words. Eventually he settled on making himself a cup of hot chocolate with a handful of marshmallows in it. Chest light and airy, Andrew trudged around the living room, socks pattering against the floor. He even opened the windows a little to let in some air, albeit at the expense of the dryness of the area around them.

When Andrew finished his drink he changed into a hoodie and slipped on his cello case. Tucking his keys - car, mailbox, home - he headed out the door.

He managed to get to Aaron's place only half an hour later without breaking any major traffic laws. Andrew thought about honking the car to get his brother's attention, but decided he didn't feel like dealing with grumpy neighbors that day. Since he was an idiot New Yorker and didn't own an umbrella, he let out a long-suffering sigh before tugging on his hood and jumping out the car.

Luckily, Aaron only lived on the second floor. Andrew knocked on his apartment door, and it almost immediately sung open.

His brother stood on the other end, an oddly open expression on his face. His eyes brightened a fraction when he saw Andrew. Then his lips twitched in a frown when he noticed the wet spots on Andrew's hoodie.

"You ran through the rain?" he asked.

"I don't have an umbrella," Andrew replied flatly. 

"You - " Aaron rolled his eyes, kicking the door wider so Andrew could step in. "Okay. Wait a minute."

Andrew slipped in while Aaron headed off, probably to find his umbrella. He looked around his brother's apartment.

He didn't normally visit - between rehearsals and outings, he saw Aaron almost every day anyway. It was rather cozy-looking, with brightly colored rugs and coffee table crowded with mugs and music sheets. By the TV sat an aquarium, surprisingly teeming with life and guppies.

Aaron came back, armed with his viola and classic disappointed expression. "I left my umbrella at Katelyn's. We'll just run."

They made their way down the stairs and through the lobby. Andrew tossed his keys up and down in his hand as they approached the entrance, and the doors were shutting behind them when Aaron cleared his throat and spoke up again.

"Hey," he said. Andrew glanced back at him. Aaron was almost smiling. "Happy birthday."

Andrew let out a faint snort, even while something thudded pleasantly in his chest. "We have the same birthday."

Rolling his eyes, Aaron retorted, "No shit. Let me just say it."

So Andrew did.

A moment passed between them, one that Andrew wanted to tuck inside his chest forever. Then the rain started pouring even harder, and Aaron inhaled sharply in annoyance.

"I really don't want to sprint."

"Just protect the fucking instrument, idiot."

"You have a hard case. You're privileged. Shut up." 

Andrew rolled his eyes and took off his hoodie, tossing it to Aaron. "Cover it up." His brother caught the sweater, shooting him a half-hearted glare, before swathing his viola in it like a baby. Andrew pretended that the cold didn't bother him, before shoving his brother off the steps first. Aaron cursed but ducked his head, running to the stupid Maserati, with Andrew following close behind. 

It was almost childish, the way they dashed from underneath the cover of the apartment complex to Andrew's car, with Aaron clutching his case to his chest. But Andrew thought maybe they needed those moments, even if they were on days like these - 

_Twenty-four._

And they were still catching up.

When they finally got in the car, getting Andrew's precious seats wet in the process, Aaron untangled the hoodie from his viola and tossed it back at Andrew.

"It's not that wet," he said when Andrew glanced at him, unamused. "I protected it."

"Thanks."

Two radio stations, a mile down the road, and a few minutes later, Aaron murmured, "We really are okay now."

It was soft and private enough that Andrew wasn't sure if he'd been meant to hear it. So he didn't say anything, only tucking the words into his garden and letting them take root there.

By some miracle, they managed to make it to rehearsal early enough that no one else was there. Andrew didn't know how. He and Aaron walked into the hall, both soaking wet, instruments somehow intact. Wymack looked up from his laptop, raising his eyebrows when he saw them.

"Happy birthday, midgets," Wymack said gruffly as they took their seats, Andrew using his hoodie to wipe the residual rainwater off his cello case. "Don't want me to make the group play _happy birthday_ for you? Or even worse, sing it?"

"I have a letter of resignation drafted on my computer just in case you try to pull that shit," Aaron said, plopping down in his chair and trying in vain to dry his hair off. Wymack's gruff chuckle rang across the hall as he returned to making notes on his score.

Sitting down in his seat, Andrew unlocked his case, running his fingers over the wood of his cello just to make sure it was still dry, before he sneezed loudly. Aaron jumped, startled, at the sudden sound. Wymack hadn't even seemed to notice. 

But Andrew caught his brother's eye across the row, and suddenly Aaron's blank face cracked into something so - bright, and he dissolved into a short burst of laughter. Probably at the fact that Andrew had nearly fallen out of his seat because of his sneeze. But it was such a rare, brilliant sound that Andrew couldn't help but smile a little too - even if it was just to himself.

(His brother was right).

((They really were okay)).

\--

Bee came home a few days before Thanksgiving, wrapped up in a woolen scarf, but looking the exact same. Andrew made them both some hot chocolate as she sat at the dining room table, smiling warmly at him as he brought over the mugs.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in so long," she said. "How've you been?"

"Alright." Andrew dumped more marshmallows into his drink before flicking one at Bee. She laughed as it hit her on the forehead, picking it up off her lap and dropping it into her own mug. 

"Your friends know they're coming over, right?" Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Andrew nodded. Nicky had made sure of it. Only the people they knew really well would be coming over, anyway. Matt, Dan, Renee, Allison, Andrew's family, Wymack, and Abby. 

And Neil. 

Which meant Jean was also invited by association. And by proxy, probably also Jeremy Knox.

But Andrew wasn't thinking that far ahead yet. 

"Any new assholes at work?" he asked instead. Bee snorted quietly. 

"No, not really. Only a few interns," she said jokingly. When Andrew quirked an eyebrow, she chuckled again and launched into a story about her unfortunate encounters with said interns. He leaned back, hands clasped loosely around his mug, and let her voice wash over him.

It was nice, the way Bee could bring home around with her everywhere she went. Andrew wasn't below admitting that - he'd missed this. He'd missed her.

Eventually they finished their hot chocolate, and Bee stood up to wash their mugs in the sink. She grabbed her coat off the hanger and turned to Andrew.

"Okay. You have absolutely nothing of substance in this place," she said, tone bright even if her words were only a tad insulting. "Come to the store with me?"

"Fine." Andrew picked up his own coat and followed her out the door, tucking his keys into his back pocket.

They ended up having to make multiple trips from Andrew's car and back. He wasn't so pleased about Bee making them go up and down the stairs instead of the elevator - _I haven't had proper cardio in a while_ was her excuse - but they managed.

She ended up teaching him how to bake a cake from scratch. Warm, flour-stained smile on her face all the time, she directed Andrew on where to go and what to do. On how to crack an egg without getting the shell in the yolk, how to make something soft with his scarred and calloused hands. How to be okay with missing people and things, how to be patient when letting the cake cool.

Later that night, Aaron came by. Bee gave him a long hug and a chaste kiss on the temple, which Aaron allowed with a begrudging smile. They all sat down together in the living room, slices of cake in their laps with the TV turned on to some cheesy soap opera that was being re-aired for God-knew-what-reason. Andrew practiced a few of the major solos of his concerto, his arm bands resting in Bee's hands as she patched them up and added some embroidery. 

It was peaceful. 

He was home.

\--

Andrew's apartment wasn't usually a place bustling with activity. Actually - it _never_ was. 

But he had to indulge in Bee's bright idea to invite his fellow Foxes over for Thanksgiving dinner, and so there they were. 

Everything smelled like baking turkey and the air freshener Aaron had forced Andrew to buy only a couple hours before. His brother, Nicky, and somehow Kevin were all in the kitchen helping Bee with preparing the food. Matt, Dan, and Allison were standing by the window, nursing their wine and laughing about some joke Matt had just told - probably at the expense of some of the violists in their group - while Renee talked quietly with Jean in the corner. Jeremy had somehow gotten lumped into a conversation with Wymack and Abby - which Andrew supposed wasn't a surprise, considering they were all music teachers of some kind. The man looked right at home there, grinning brightly and adding more light to Andrew's apartment than was definitely necessary, but Wymack and Abby seemed to enjoy it.

Andrew stood off to the side, having finished his second glass of wine. He still felt sober, but he didn't feel like drinking anything more. He tilted his head to the side as he watched all the motion, off to the edge.

It was alright. He wouldn't have wanted to be in the midst of it anyway. There was something oddly - he supposed Bee would've called it therapeutic or something - seeing all the people he knew in one place, coexisting without chaos.

Andrew got off his perch by his cello stand, trudging back toward the kitchen. On the way there, he paused when he noticed Neil sitting on the couch by himself, cradling a half-finished glass of wine in his hands as he stared at the TV. It would've almost been funny, how lonely he looked, if Andrew hadn't noticed the distant glaze in his eyes. Like he was there in person, but not in the mind.

Changing his mind, Andrew turned and headed around the back of the couch. He made a point to plop down on the cushions, enough so that Neil jolted at the movement, before his blank expression fell away into a tiny smile snagged between his teeth, when he recognized Andrew.

"Hey," he said.

"Don't like it here?" Andrew asked instead. Neil blinked at him slowly as he processed the question, before his eyes widened and he shook his head.

"No, no. Of course not. I - this is is great." Slumping a little, Neil looked around as he tucked his knees close to his chest. "It's just...I'm not used to things like this."

"It's an American thing," Andrew said. Confusion overtook Neil's expression - his eyebrows and nose scrunched slightly as he pursed his lips to the side. Then he shook his head.

"No, I get Thanksgiving," he murmured. "I mean I've never really gone to - I don't know, family functions before."

It was annoying, how quickly and quietly Neil could worm under Andrew's skin and hit him in all his sore spots. Neil and all his issues, and all the fucked-up _empathy_ and _understanding_ he could draw out of Andrew. He supposed he'd been growing softer in the first place - but Neil still managed to trip him up with his broken pieces.

Annoying.

Andrew tried not to get angry - peace and rage did not mix well - but it still stirred faintly in his chest. He adjusted his position so Neil had no choice but to look him in the eye.

"No one's going to make you do anything," he said quietly. "Except maybe Bee if she sees you don't eat anything." 

It wasn't the best of reassurances, but it still made Neil smile. Andrew tucked it, a hushed victory, into his chest for safekeeping.

"My family's weird," Neil said after a minute. "I don't like talking - or even thinking - about half. The other half is the only reason I'm still here."

Andrew quirked an eyebrow, and Neil's shoulders sagged as he thought. 

"My uncle's the one who took me in after - everything," Neil said, his expression turning wistful as he gazed at the opposite wall. Idly swishing the wine about in his glass, he continued, "Uncle Stuart. He lives in London, basically raised me after my mother died. It's where I got the accent." Sitting back, he turned to look thoughtfully at Andrew. "I guess I could drop the accent now, but it always stuck. Maybe I just don't want to forget London, and it's all because of nostalgia. Stuart gave me a home, you know? He's the one who got me to where I am. He found me my teacher."

The confession, small as it was, still left him trembling and flickering in the half-light. Neil stared at the deep violet wine, before raising the glass to his lips and taking a few sad sips. Andrew didn't like it, that distant glaze in Neil's ocean irises. It was far too ghostly for a man as stupidly _human_ as him.

Andrew waited for Neil to finish before asking, "Stuart. What does he do?"

Neil started, before flashing Andrew a tentative smile. "He used to work in the government. He was part of the MI-6, and he was one of their better operatives." Settling back, Neil sighed softly. "He worked there for ten years before it all became too much for him, but he made enough to last a lifetime. Plus, his boyfriend - well, I should say husband now - is quite well-off, too. So he's alright."

He set his glass down, smile growing softer with fondness. Andrew _hated_ the way the glow of the living room light cast gentle shadows across Neil's face, illuminating him like he was some sort of angel. He looked just a fraction more at peace just then, gazing at his wine, drowning in an oversized sweater that probably belonged to Jean. Even the fractures in his heart, his bones, they seemed alright; like he was a broken vase glued back together, and someone had stuck a light inside his chest - and he glowed with a subtle, softened kind of life. Not unlike the way the sunset pierced through the cracks in a thick veil of clouds, not unlike the way stained glass illuminated the belly of a room like a kaleidoscope.

Yes, Andrew _hated_ that. He didn't even have the words for it - he just sounded stupid.

Neil shifted, running a hand through his hair. Then his smile widened once again, lips parting with a breathy laugh.

"I missed his wedding with Adrian, you know," he said, "which sucks. But then again, Stuart was never big on ceremonies. He wasn't about the whole 'kissing in front of all his friends and family' trope. I don't know what that makes him or Adrian to me."

"I don't know either," Andrew offered helpfully. Neil laughed again, louder this time.

"Fathers-in-law? Maybe." He shrugged, eyes gleaming with warmth, before focusing on Andrew. "What about you? Tell me a story."

"What story?" 

"Anything." Neil leaned back, tucking his knees up to his chest. His feet rested just a few inches away from Andrew's. "I like listening to you talk."

Andrew pretended his words didn't mean anything, only sitting back and tilting his head to the side. "What if I talk shit?" he asked, just to be difficult. Neil smiled mirthfully, biting on his thumb like that would help him suppress it.

"That's not a real story."

He'd never had many stories to tell. They usually weren't the kinds anyone wanted to hear - but slowly the good ones were beginning to outweigh the bad. He stayed silent for a few minutes as he tried to come up with something. In the meantime, Neil fiddled with his wine glass, only slightly tipsy as he leaned forward to rest his head against the back of the couch, wide blue eyes staring steadily at Andrew.

Finally, he came up with something. Neil broke into a rather loopy smile when Andrew began talking, and Andrew looked away before it became too much.

"This was back when I had just started playing cello," he said. "Aaron was new at the viola too. We were both seated at the very back, and I didn't do much for most of the rehearsals. My brother actually tried."

Neil hummed languidly, tucking his cheek against his elbow as he stared intently at Andrew.

"The principal violist had some sort of superiority complex," Andrew continued, swirling his wine about. "Long story short, he said some things to Aaron that I didn't appreciate. Called him, in less kind words, an 'amateur' who would only drag down the group."

"What'd you do?" Neil asked when Andrew paused, huffing quietly.

"I broke his bow. Our conductor had a fit over it."

Neil blinked as he processed Andrew's words. Then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped slightly. " _No._ Andrew."

"Yes, Neil?"

"Bows are expensive!" 

"That's his problem."

"Still!" But Neil was already smiling, shocked silence dissolving into soft giggles. He covered his mouth with one hand like he was trying to smother his grin. "I mean, you should never punish someone for trying to learn an instrument, you know?" 

Andrew tilted his head to the side. Of course there had to be a kernel of experience in there, but he didn't think either of them felt like delving into their pasts just then. "Don't tell Kevin, now," he said. "It's his greatest fear."

"Okay, deal." 

"Don't tell me what?" Kevin stopped at the couch, glaring at Andrew over the tray of pumpkin pie in his hands. "Andrew."

"Nothing, Kevin. You weren't invited," Andrew said petulantly. Kevin stared at him for a few unusually long seconds, before his nostrils flared and he turned away. 

"Your mom wanted me to tell you that dinner's almost ready," he said over his shoulder on his way back into the kitchen. Andrew stared at his retreating back for a few more moments, wondering if he should take one of his spare cushions and chuck it at the asshole's head, but then his attention was dragged back to Neil when he let out another quiet laugh. Andrew gazed at him as he looked down at his hands, putting the wine glass up to his lips before pouting slightly when he realized there was no more wine left.

"I guess we should go, then," he murmured when he noticed Andrew's gaze. 

"Yes." But neither of them moved.

Neil was the first to glance away, adjusting his sweater collar when it began to slip too much, and uncurling his legs. The living room light glowed warmly against his face, twisting gently over the contours of his cheekbones as they rose with yet another private smile. Andrew followed him up, and Neil flashed him a grateful look for - he wasn't sure what.

They had to pull together a separate table in order to make enough room for everyone. Neil sat in between Jean and Andrew, leaning his arm on the table in such a way that their elbows nearly brushed. The night went on, the air floating with conversations and _I-missed-you_ 's and _this-is-so-good_ 's. And all the while, Andrew silently added the memory of Neil's laughter to the growing list of songs he'd ever memorized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was the most self indulgent piece of shit i've ever written and i love it. sorry while i get back into writing, it's been a while. got super busy w life and school and mental health shit and now the aftg reverse big bang, but i'm back!! gonna try an update each of my ongoing wips sometime Not in 2 months :D


	13. pipe dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew and neil go to a music store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: PINING PINING PINING
> 
> one of these days i'll actually edit my fucking chapters but THIS IS NOT THAT DAY so let me know if there are any MAJOR issues!! <3

During rehearsal Wymack had Andrew pull his chair so that he was facing the front, so he could play to his "audience" (a wall) while they ran through the concerto. As usual, it was dreadfully boring. He played through it without much protest, only stopping when Wymack dropped his baton to critique the orchestra. Andrew tapped his bow against his knee, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to meet Renee's gaze. She gave him an encouraging smile.

By the time the hour was up and rehearsal was over, Andrew was ready to retire. He stood up, packing his cello and slapping the hinges of his case down. He didn't have to give Nicky or Aaron rides - they'd come on their own that day, and he purposely ignored Kevin's harping. Deliberately swinging his case over his shoulder, he brushed around Kevin and made his way to the exit.

Andrew took a detour, passing by the rows of practice rooms before pushing open the door for the stairs leading to the roof. He burst onto the rooftop, body shuddering with a sigh when he was greeted with fresh air and cloudy, rain-heavy skies. He set his cello down before unzipping his bag, taking out the bottle of whiskey he'd stashed in it, and sat down by the edge.

He hadn't brought his cigarettes - he was getting better, lately, about not smoking. But he unscrewed the whiskey bottle, flicking aside the cap so that it skittered away someplace far away from him, and took a long drink. 

Wymack had caught him only a couple times sneaking alcohol into rehearsals. The only reason Andrew didn't pull it out this time was because - well, the concerto. He figured if his lack of practice and general sunshine demeanor hadn't been enough to get him fired, he was fine just as he was.

Andrew leaned back, stretching out his legs so that the soles of his shoes lined up with the sheer drop off the roof. He sat there for a while, whiskey bottle sitting faithfully next to him, as he drank in the blissful solitude. After maybe ten minutes, he heard the rickety door creak open again, but he didn't have to turn around to know it was Neil who was walking toward him. 

(No one treaded the world like Neil did).

((That, and no one knew about Andrew's sanctuary up on the roof)).

"Hey," Neil greeted him. Andrew nodded in response, taking a swig from the bottle again as Neil sat down. His eyes crinkled as he watched Andrew, and he asked, "You snuck alcohol into rehearsal?"

Andrew peered at him from the corner of his eye. "You don’t?" He spoke around the mouth of the bottle, so his voice sounded warped and alien.

Snorting, Neil looked away. He then leaned over until he was lying completely on his back, hands clasped over his stomach as he stared up at the cloudy sky. Despite the overcast weather, his eyes still gleamed like inner cave pools and oceans. His lashes fluttered as he sighed softly. Andrew noticed he did that a lot - closed his eyes and sighed, whenever he was thinking. 

"I'm supposed to be getting my bow re-haired today," Neil said after a short silence. "Do you want to come with me?" When Andrew didn't immediately answer, he continued, "I always loved going to music stores. Stuart would leave me there for hours on end until he finished whatever work he was doing. Sometimes I went into the back, where all the instruments were being made. It's weird, seeing all the skeletons there, without the bodies."

"Mm."

"They're the strangest places. It's like the entire outside world shuts out and you're just left completely alone." Neil lolled his head to the side so he could meet Andrew's eyes. "But I needed the break, you know."

"Is Jean busy?" Andrew asked after a few moments, letting Neil's words float gracefully between them. It wasn't anything, just a mild jab, maybe some leftover resentment for the surly man, but Neil's lips still twitched. The sky flickered in his irises.

"You and Jean are different," he murmured. "He's my best friend. You're..."

"Nothing." Andrew tore his gaze away from the man next to him, glaring at the city-scape beyond the rooftop like it'd somehow quell the growing pains cracking through his chest. "I'm nothing."

There was a shuffling sound as Neil sat up. It was funny - Andrew could almost feel Neil's indignant gaze boring a hole through the side of his head. 

"You're not. You're Andrew." His voice was soft and almost - tender. Like they weren't overlooking car-slicked streets or people-humming sidewalks. Like it was just the two of them in their own spring garden, and Neil had just shared a secret that could've toppled Eden itself. "Don't say that."

Andrew wanted to say the pang in his chest came from surprise, maybe even annoyance, and not from the blossoms rooting themselves in his heart walls. 

(He couldn't really say that).

He turned around and met Neil's eyes again. He wanted to hold his gaze in his palms - then maybe throw it out so it couldn't burn him so much. Conviction and truth were set ablaze in Neil's irises, his lips set in a stubborn line as he stared Andrew down.

"Okay," Andrew finally said. "I'll come."

The tension slipped out of Neil's shoulders, and he smiled brightly. It could've cracked open the skies and unleashed the inevitable rainstorm, it was so bright.

\--

The music store wasn't all that big. There was one older guy at the counter who looked up at them when the doorbell signaled their entrance. He flashed them a friendly smile.

"Are you Neil Josten?" he asked, checking his notebook as Neil stepped up to the table.

"Yes."

"Here for re-hairing?"

"Yes." 

"Perfect," the man said as Neil took his bow out from his case, setting it on the glass counter top. "It should take an hour. Feel free to come back or stay and have a look around."

"Thank you," Neil said softly. The man took his bow and disappeared with it into the back room, leaving them alone with nothing but the soft sound of Mozart playing through the speakers.

"This is nice," Andrew deadpanned as he looked around. Neil flashed him a playful look - he wasn't really lying. It was clean and tidy, with a few dust motes floating about whenever they caught on the lights, the undertones of peace and nonlinear time almost overpowering the music. He then focused on the almost awed, excited look overcoming Neil's face as he looked about. It was like looking at a kid in a candy store.

"Come on, let's look around." Neil moved almost instinctively, reaching forward and snagging onto Andrew's sleeve. Andrew couldn't help the surprised jerk that ran through his body - _but it wasn't out of disgust_ \- and suddenly Neil's face fell as he realized his mistake. Immediately, he let go, as if Andrew had burned him, a hasty apology tumbling out from his lips.

(But Andrew didn't feel wrong).

((Neil's touch lingered where his fingertips had accidentally, _barely_ brushed over Andrew's knuckles. It was feathery and light)).

"Andrew, I'm - "

"Shut up." Andrew cut him off when Neil looked like he was getting a little too close to panicking. "It's okay."

His voice trailed off, but he still wavered like he was uncertain of where else to go. Andrew got it. 

(Crossing boundaries was a double-edged sword, after all).

Andrew looked away, starting forward. He glanced back at Neil, who was still hesitating. A slight sigh shuddered through Andrew's chest, and a split-second decision suddenly materialized in his mind. 

He reached forward, almost without thinking, with his hand up. "Yes or no, Neil?"

Neil glanced down at Andrew's hand like it was foreign. "Y-Yes? Yeah."

The idiot didn't move, though. Andrew spared only a few more seconds before rolling his eyes and taking Neil's hand himself. Warmth sparked and sputtered in his own chest, running across his body like flames when their palms pressed together. He pretended like Neil's touch didn't affect him at all, though, like it didn't threaten to crumple his walls _at all_. He pretended like his heart wasn't pounding obnoxiously loudly with his sudden change of mind.

Most importantly, he pretended that he didn't notice the way Neil ducked his head to hide the sudden pinkness of his cheeks, the way his calloused fingertips tickled Andrew's skin as he readjusted their grip - not too tight, not too loose.

Andrew chewed on his lip, before looking away. "Violins," he said curtly. Neil started.

"Right. Yeah," he murmured, glancing up at him almost shyly. "In the back." He led Andrew in the other direction, down a short hallway before they passed through an open doorway into a larger room.

There, rows upon rows of violins hung off spacious racks. They went from the smallest to largest sizes, each body rippling with a different wooden pattern and flare. Andrew could smell the wood and leftover rosin in the air - it was surprisingly familiar. In the corner, pressed against the wall, was a separate rack of cellos.

Andrew let Neil take him up to a row of violins in particular, right above the cellos. He reached out, lightly running his fingers across the strings as Neil touched the violins. They weren't tuned correctly, but the sound was still rich and sonorous, vibrating faintly through the silence.

"I used to hide out in rooms like these, back in London," Neil said quietly, breaking the quiet. Andrew was glad - he was getting tired of listening to his beating heart. "Hernandez worked in a music store, and after lessons, he'd let me run in here while he dealt with customers. I'd try out almost everything while I waited for Stuart to come get me, but none of them came close to my mother's violin." 

His eyes softened into molten blue as he blinked away the memories, his smile made out of bittersweet fondness. "I couldn't imagine myself playing anything else."

Andrew let his hand fall from the cello as Neil spoke.

It was something he thought about more often than he liked to admit: what he'd be doing if it wasn't for Bee enrolling both him and his brother in their school's orchestra program. Sometimes he just became _intimately_ aware of how little he'd be without music, without his family, without his orchestra. How he'd still be Andrew, but _less_ , without his cello or the weight of his on his back whenever he walked around with his case. How the feel of his instrument had become synonymous with the weight of the world - because he was Atlas - except it was _better_.

If he was honest with himself, it was a little frightening, how easily he could brush aside something that had built up such a great part of him.

(Or maybe the fact that he was even frightened at all said something much, much bigger).

The feeling of Neil's fingers twitching in Andrew's hand brought his attention back to the man next to him. Neil had taken a violin down from the rack, pressing it against his stomach as he plucked the strings with his thumb.

"It's weird," he was murmuring. "It just sounds so different."

"Mm."

"It's not her, you know?"

Well, he knew now.

Neil stared at the new violin for a few more seconds, before scoffing to himself and hanging it back up. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered - another Eden secret. "Jean thinks I'm too hung up on my family."

Andrew shrugged. Neil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and their gazes caught for the briefest moment. Then Neil looked away, reaching up and brushing his fingers across the glossy shoulders of the violin. Andrew couldn't stop staring, right there.

Right there, with the halo of light softening Neil's auburn hair and glowing off his cheeks. Right there, with the sheer _bigness_ of his eyes, like there were entire caverns and worlds and paradises tucked beneath the halcyon blue, only a little visibly fractured underneath ocean waves and history. 

Right there, with the poetry thrumming through the delicate veins in his hands - _somehow still clasped with Andrew's_ , an phenomenon in itself - and the blood-red music in his heart, his voice, his breath. Right there, with the way he could complete unhinged metaphors with the slightest smile, a Mona Lisa of his own.

Right there, a pipe dream.

Andrew wondered if he reached out and tried to catch Neil between his hands, he'd dissipate. If it wasn't for the warmth of Neil's hand, still holding Andrew's, he would've thought he was a complete hallucination.

But he was there. He was real.

Neil turned his head and caught his gaze again. 

"Staring," he said with the slightest smirk. "Something on my face?"

 _Your fucking smile,_ Andrew wanted to retort. Instead, he just looked away as Neil tilted his head back, eyes closing for the briefest moment.

He was getting afraid more easily now, Andrew thought as he counted his heartbeats, still quick and unusual. But then again, maybe that was just a side effect of his humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, having andrew wax poetic about neil bc i'm projecting my love onto these boys? more likely than you think. my boy's completely fucked when it comes to neil hahahahahahaha 
> 
> next up: concert time!! and also an unexpected guest
> 
> i'll try to update my mer!neil fic next!! just got struck w the feels on this one :) the hand holding was completely unintentional and just came to me while i was writing ahhaha


	14. speared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrew performs his [concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fvcdunC_0kw).
> 
> (just listen to like the first 10 seconds bc it's so fucking cool)
> 
> this [ video ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3VjkCnufjs) is also rly funny if you want to learn about professional orchestra attire (tho in here they just wear concert tuxes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: referenced self-harm, drake is mentioned. it gets heavy at the end,

When it came time for the concert, Andrew's place somehow became yet another congregation hall for his family. This time, Neil was with them, having gone with Nicky and Kevin to grab coffee for everyone before dress rehearsal. He'd followed Andrew into his room, and Andrew let him close the door to shut out the noise coming from the living room. Neil settled onto his bed, legs swinging over the ground, as he watched Andrew adjust his armbands in the mirror.

"Do you get nervous on stage?" Neil asked after a minute or two of silence. Andrew met his gaze through the mirror.

"No," he replied after a minute. 

It wasn't exactly a lie. Andrew didn't care enough about what other people thought about him to get truly nervous. It was just natural to him _._

Being the principal of the cello section at NYSO was something he'd never even thought was possible for him, much less performing an entire concerto in a sold-out concert hall, in front of hundreds of people. He was used to being overlooked, underestimated - _Andrew, squanders all his raw talent_. He plays like he _just can't care_. What a shame. He was used to remaining quiet, suffering in the dark, patching himself together after tearing himself apart. To even think about baring those wounds open to an unaware audience was still unfamiliar to him.  

But of course, the people who listened to him - they didn't know anything. They didn't know about his past, about his self-destruction. They didn't know about how hard he had to work to climb back up from that rock bottom, to  _heal_ , to rid his home of the thorns and barbed wire fences he'd surrounded it with and find that elusive " _better_." 

No, what his audience knew about him, they could only glean from his music. So he didn't get nervous or overly passionate. He played because it was a way he could speak to hundreds without any of them understanding him - he could shout his secrets as loudly as he wanted, yet no one would hear him. 

And that was the safest thing for Andrew.

Adjusting his collar, he turned away from his reflection to meet Neil's curious gaze. He tilted his chin up. "Care to elaborate?" he asked.

"I don't get stage fright," Andrew said flatly, approaching him. 

"Mm. Fair," Neil said. "I used to get so nervous before performances. Sometimes I'd get panic attacks from it. I was just so - terrified that I'd make a mistake."

"You can make mistakes," Andrew murmured. 

Neil looked away, smile turning bittersweet. He ran his fingers over Andrew's sheets, picking at the edges of his blanket. 

His voice was quiet and cracked with an unfamiliar fragility when he spoke next. 

"You don't."

Andrew's heart clenched harshly, and he didn't know whether he should've felt so disgusted that. Not disgusted at Neil, but at every single bastard who had ever hurt him and broken him to the point where he  _believed_ a mistake would cost him so dearly. To the point where he thought he deserved whatever punishment arrived from  _any_ slip-up, no matter how small. 

He stepped back, closing his eyes for a second. He clenched his fists so they wouldn't shake. 

"Andrew?" Neil sounded tentative, almost concerned.

"Come here." 

Opening his eyes again once he was sure he'd tamped down enough of his anger, Andrew watched as Neil got to his feet, slowly approaching him. Andrew gave him a few moments, before reaching out and snagging his fingers in Neil's collar, tugging him closer. Neil's eyes widened and he stumbled slightly, and Andrew only stopped when they were only a few inches apart.

"I remember every mistake I have ever made," Andrew said quietly, letting go of Neil. "I could replay them all in my head like a movie."

Neil made a soft noise, tilting his head to the side. "Photographic memory?"

"Eidetic. But that doesn't matter," Andrew said. "I am trying to say that you do not know how many things I've fucked up before. I just play music the way I want to be heard."

"Do you?" Neil murmured, though it would've taken a blind man to miss the admiring glow in his eyes as he gazed at Andrew. It made Andrew's skin tingle, to be on the receiving end of a look like that. It was too poetic and far too tender.

Looking away, he continued, "No one is going to hurt you or me anymore."

A wobbly exhale lay trapped between Neil's teeth. He bit his lip, whispering, "I  _am_ better now."

Andrew looked on steadily. "Me too," he said quietly.

Vulnerability for vulnerability.

Neil's smile was slow and unsure, the way the clouds covered sunsets in pale pink washes until they decided it was time to retreat. His eyes, wide and blue and molten, roamed Andrew's face until they settled on a spot at the base of his throat.

"Hey," he said softly. "Can I fix your tie?"

Andrew pretended his heart wasn't already twisting from the serene way Neil kept smiling at him, and found himself nodding. Slowly, Neil took one more step closer and reached up, tugging at Andrew's bowtie with a delicate grip.Neither of them said anything else while Neil worked. Andrew fisted his hands in his pockets and tried not to stare at Neil up close - at the faint dashing of freckles across his cheeks, the way his hair was already immaculately glossed back save for the one stray strand that hung over his forehead, or the slightest upturn of his lips as he looked down. 

(He knew that if anyone walked in right then and took a good look at Andrew, they'd see something completely strange and twisted in his eyes).

((Something too soft, too warm, too open. Something that looked too much like the way Neil looked at him)).

He glanced away as soon as Neil looked up, lighting running his fingers over Andrew's suit as he smoothed it out.

"There. Better. _Oh!_ " Neil paused, then reached up and brushed at Andrew's hair. To Andrew's chagrin, he stopped breathing as soon as Neil's fingertips touched his forehead. 

But Neil didn't notice. He merely touched Andrew with careful regard, like he didn't want to touch more than was necessary. His lips parted in the tiniest, most wondrous smile as he moved a piece of Andrew's hair back. He always looked like that, Andrew noticed, whenever he was lost in the moment. In the back of an instrument store, in the middle of a performance. And here. 

(Small and big enough to set entire planetariums alight). 

"Sorry," he murmured. His fingertips lingered in Andrew's hair for the briefest moment. "That was bothering me."

Andrew didn't get to reply before his door was swinging open to reveal Nicky, viola case in hand. Neil dutifully retracted his hands, but it was too late. Nicky's eyes widened, like he wanted to say something, but Andrew glared at him harshly. It shut him up immediately.

"What?" he asked when his cousin lingered a second too long.

"Call time's in thirty minutes, and Kev wants us to head out now," Nicky said hastily. "Just wanted to check how the star of the show was doing."

"Don't call me that!" Kevin snapped indignantly in the background.

"I'll be out soon," Andrew said, electing to ignore Nicky's silent question. Neil murmured something about seeing him later before he stepped back out with Nicky, and the door swung gently closed behind them.

Andrew shut his eyes to gather himself, inhaling deeply. He turned back toward the mirror, adjusting his sleeves so they covered his armbands, before heading out himself.

\--

He could hear the sheer amount of people talking, even from backstage. Their conversations carried through the floor, rumbling with anticipation as he watched the rest of the Foxes beginning to line up. Nicky glanced over his shoulder and gave him a thumbs up, followed by two finger guns (by some miracle, he didn't drop his viola). Aaron looked over too, nodding and smiling slightly when he caught Andrew's gaze.

Wymack headed up to him as Andrew leaned back, spinning his cello on its endpin.

"I'm not worried about you," he said, crossing his arms. Andrew raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, God bless," he deadpanned. Wymack snorted.

"So how would you feel about doing another concerto concert?"

Andrew tilted his head back, letting it hit the wall. "You couldn't wait to proposition me after I was done?"

"I know you like this shit. Deep inside," Wymack said. "And besides, you deserve to be heard. People don't hear you enough."

"Oh, Coach," Andrew said, because he didn't know what else to say. Wymack smirked - he knew he'd hit home. He always knew how to do that. How to call Andrew out without pushing him over, how to point him out and declare -  _you're here and getting there, and you'd better do your damn work_.

"Let me know when you've decided. I was thinking maybe having it in the middle of December, before our break." Wymack nodded and straightened up, tapping his baton against his fingers. "You'll do well."

Andrew watched as his coach left, heading down the room for last-minute checks of everyone's attire and instruments. Then he looked down at his cello, brushing his fingers over the recently tuned strings.

After several more minutes, the rest of the Foxes began filing onstage after the announcer outside finished with her introductory spiel. Andrew straightened up, making sure to adjust his sleeves for the last time, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He quickly took it out - it was a text from Bee.

 **Bee (mom):** Good luck Andrew! Watching on the broadcast x

His lips twitched imperceptibly, and he turned and tucked his phone away in the case. The announcer first called for Wymack onstage. He walked past Andrew, nodding at him before pushing open the doors, waving at the rest of the audience. Their cheers flooded backstage, the vibrations from the Foxes' shuffling running like electricity through the floor.

Then, his name.

"And with that, ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to our soloist of the night, Andrew Minyard!"

He headed onstage to the enthusiastic clapping of hundreds and the intent stares of the rest of his orchestra mates. Andrew astutely ignored everyone, not making eye contact with anyone as he sat down on his designated chair. As the applause died down, he took his time getting adjusted, sticking his endpin to the floor so his cello didn't slip.

The lights dimmed. Andrew couldn't see the faces of anyone out there. Not that he needed to or wanted to - he could feel their gazes all fall on him. It almost made his skin crawl, the heaviness of their attentions.

Wymack glanced at him. Andrew lifted his bow, silently setting it over his strings, and met his gaze. He lifted his chin, and his coach turned back around with a smile and raised his baton.

He struck it down once. And the concert began.

 _Effortless_. It was the one word every critic and reporter and enthusiast used to describe Andrew. His fingers glided across the fingerboard like it cost him nothing. He played the angriest passages with graceful intensity - roughness made furious by unexpected softness. And maybe something slipped through in the notes while he wasn't paying attention, while he let his muscle memory guide him. He caught it and held it close - it wasn't ugly or warped, it was something far greater than that. 

Greater than the foster kid who'd made it to the center of the stage. Greater than the concert hall itself.

Andrew didn't know what it was, but he let it fall in whatever place it chose. It burned deep beneath his ribs and over his strings - heart and cello - like a fire. He closed his eyes against it, and continued on.

He didn't think of much while he was playing. The rest of the audience seemed to have melted away, as did the music swelling behind him, until it was just him alone in an echo chamber. Him and all the secrets no one had to understand, him and all the music he'd ever memorized, coming alive.

(He liked it like that).

When the concerto was over, three seconds of pure silence rang through the hall, along with the fading echo of their final chord. Then, the audience erupted into cheers and  _bravos_ and applause. Andrew looked up, squinting against the lights and rubbing his hand against his thigh. His fingers trembled slightly - they always did at the end of a concert - as he ran them through his hair.

Wymack grinned and gestured for Andrew to stand up, reaching toward him. Andrew shook his hand, meeting Wymack's eyes, wide with adrenaline and pride. 

"Fucking hell, Minyard," he said quietly, though his words were drowned out by the cheering.

"Tenure," was all Andrew said in response. Wymack laughed loudly.

"No need to keep reminding me." 

Andrew turned back toward the audience, tucking his bow neatly against his cello. He dipped his head once in a stoic bow, before stepping aside as Wymack gestured for the rest of the Foxes to stand up. The cheers only grew louder.

\--

Backstage, everyone thrummed with energy, still riding out the last effects of an exciting performance. Andrew packed up his cello, turning his phone back on and texting Bee that he was finished. He busied himself with plucking the broken hairs off his bow, when Renee approached him and tapped on his case for his attention.

"Hey! You were stunning out there," she said brightly, crouching down as Andrew muttered his gratitude. "I heard Wymack wants you to do another concerto."

"I'll think about it," Andrew said, slipping his bow back in the case.

"Are you going to top this one, though?" When Andrew raised an eyebrow at her, Renee beamed sweetly. Her eyes twinkled brightly, even in the dim lighting of the backstage hall.

"You know what happens when you challenge me," Andrew murmured, shutting his case and locking it up. 

"Mm. I know you too well." Renee waited until he'd stood up before straightening up too. She reached out from behind her, holding out a rose. "It's for you. The one thing that actually grew in my garden."

Andrew took it, running a finger over the velvety petals. Then he tucked it away in the side of his case. "Thank you."

"You up for sparring this weekend?"

"Okay."

"Wonderful. I'll see you in a bit, then." She leaned in, and Andrew let her kiss him chastely on the cheek. It was a gesture that he was slowly getting more used to, first from Bee, then Renee. 

"Bye, Renee."

He slipped one of his case straps over his shoulder, before heading toward his family. On the way there he spotted Neil standing with Jeremy and Jean. He looked over and met Andrew's eyes, breaking out into one of his brilliant smiles. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Andrew's own phone buzzed a few moments later.

 **Neil:** Can't leave these two. But you were perfect.

Andrew looked up from the text, meeting Neil's gaze. The concertmaster smiled again - this time more hesitantly, more  _softly_ \- before Jeremy was wrapping his arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer.

His head spun as he looked away, exhaling sharply. His family had gathered near the water cooler, and Nicky spotted him first. 

"Hey, you funky little badass!" he shouted, waving Andrew over. "Camille is  _quaking_."

Aaron rolled his eyes, throwing his cup away in the trash. "You are not on a first name basis with Saint-Saëns, so shut up."

"Uh, stop being bitter." Nicky grinned. "I'd hug you, 'Drew, but I don't want to die. So - " He reached out, lightly punching the side of Andrew's case. "There."

"Thanks," Andrew muttered. "Get ready before I leave without you."

"Okay, okay. Hey, could you grab my jacket? I need to say bye to Matt real quick." Nicky jogged off as Aaron left to pick up his case.

Andrew turned back around, reaching into his pocket to grab his car keys. He looked around for Nicky's jacket, spotting it hanging by one of the unused drums. He started heading toward it, before his eyes caught on someone nearby - 

And he froze.

(Sometimes,  _sometimes_ , Andrew's memory was a blessing. It was how he could remember entire hour-long concertos with ease).

((Other times, he swore it was a curse)).

But even without it, there was no way he'd be able to forget the mousy hair, or the smile-crinkled gray eyes, or the island-shaped birthmark on her left cheek. There was no way he'd be able to forget that lopsided upturn of her lips, the way the right side always ended up slightly higher than the left.

She caught his gaze before he could do anything else. All he could do was try not to drop his car keys and leave - maybe panic.

"Cass."

Her name left his mouth bitter and aching.

Smile wobbling slightly, she turned to face him fully. Andrew's gaze fell to the bouquet of flowers clasped in her hands.

"Hey, Andrew," she whispered. Oh, God, she really was there. Andrew's brain wasn't just coming up with some cruel, outlandish scenario brought on by post-concert blues. She was  _there_.

When he didn't -  _couldn't_ \- say anything, she shifted and lifted up the flowers, holding them up to Andrew. "I got these for you."

But Andrew only stared at her like she'd just offered him a handful of knives instead. 

(It'd been so long since he'd touched a knife like that. Since he'd felt the need to carry them around, to protect himself with them - because he'd been alone, alone,  _alone_ , and now he  _wasn't_ ).

((He didn't  _need_ them. He hadn't needed them for years)).

Some dim, more rational part of him urged him to just turn away and leave. To just come back for Nicky's stupid jacket later and just go home. But the rest of him refused to move.

It was like he was little again, and Cass had just given him something amazing, all tucked away beneath her warm smile. Maybe it was a cookie that she'd just freshly baked. Maybe it was a hug. It didn't matter. All that was really important, all that had  _mattered_ , was that Andrew had done something good, and she'd  _loved_ him for it.

Except now, there was no sense of quasi-pride left of him. Only cold, cold numbness. A peculiar kind of panic that threatened to drown him.

He bit his lip harshly, reaching forward to accept the flowers. His grip on the stems was so tight he almost crushed them, and the flowers rustled slightly with how his hands were shaking. Cass's smile wavered even more, and she took another hesitant step forward. 

Andrew retreated so quickly he nearly crashed into someone. Cass flinched subtly, her face twitching, and Andrew didn't have to turn around to know it was his brother he'd nearly hit. Aaron steadied Andrew with one hand, keeping his hand flat against his case.

"What the fuck, Andrew?" he said lowly, glancing around. "Who's that?"

Footsteps approached them, and Andrew's gaze darted over to meet Nicky's. He looked confused, his smile dissipating when he noticed the new tenseness in Andrew and Aaron's stances.

He glanced at Cass, frowning. "Hey, Cuz?" he asked quietly. "Who's that? Should I get Coach?"

"You were - you were so _good_ ," Cass breathed, ignoring them. She focused only on Andrew. Her eyes were glistening with some too-soft emotion that twisted brutally between Andrew's ribs like a knife. "I didn't know you played cello."

He closed his eyes briefly. Somehow, he managed to reply, without his voice shaking, "You didn't know many things, Cass."

"I-I'm not here to do anything," she pleaded desperately. "I just - I just had to see you one last time. I - I didn't have any contact, and I saw that you were with this orchestra now - "

" _Stop._ " Andrew's head was spinning, and he could swear that the more Cass spoke, the more he could feel himself being uprooted. Despite it all, he could hear Nicky's muffled voice in the background, and Aaron's snappish protests for her to leave them alone. 

Another flinch. A shaky breath.

"I-I lost Drake already," Cass said. "I - "

 _Drake_.

Hearing  _his_ name shocked him so badly he couldn't even  _hide_ the shudder that passed through him. Silently, he berated himself for it as Cass's face fell - he could feel Aaron's stare boring into the side of his head as he took another step back. 

It'd been years since he last saw Drake, the last time being in a casket where he'd fucking belonged. Anger finally roared past the numbness locking him up, wrapping him in thorns and barbed wire, and he glared at his  _would-have-been_ mother. 

" _Don't_ speak about  _him_ ," he snapped.

"I didn't mean to lose you too," she said quietly. " _Please_ , just listen - "

"I don't like that word. Don't use it." Andrew hadn't heard it for such a long time - his family had always been especially careful not to say it around him the first time he'd brought it up - that it felt like a brutal slap across his face.

Cass closed her eyes. She looked close to crying.

"Andrew," she whispered, her final appeal. "He was my _son._ "

(And that was true. But here was another irrefutable fact: Andrew refused to let anyone destroy him anymore. Not after Drake. Not after Cass).

((No, the  _only_ person with the power to do so would be  _himself_ )).

So he straightened up, hiding his shaking hands in his pockets. Aaron stared at him like he couldn't recognize him just then.

"So was I." Even he could hear the way his voice shook. "Or I thought I was going to be."

It was finally enough to shut Cass up. 

Of course, it was only because he'd managed to tear himself apart enough that finally, she could see the mess she'd made. Because self-destruction was always the last resort to getting anyone to see anything.

And of course, disgust and laziness and  _you-are-too-broken-for-me-to-handle_ were always more powerful than whatever  _motherly love_ was supposed to fucking be.

Her expression collapsed as she bowed her head.

"I'm sorry."

But it was not enough. It would never be enough.

Andrew stared at her for only a moment longer, before he forcefully tore his gaze away. Wounds ripped open again, he turned away from Cass for the last time, only to find Wymack standing right behind him. Nicky was at his side, eyes wide with concern.

"What the hell is going on here?" Wymack demanded gruffly, his eyes darkening as soon as he saw whatever expression was on Andrew's face.

The words were slipping out before Andrew could do anything.

"Never," he spat, "let her in my fucking sight again."

He didn't wait to see if anyone was following him before he turned around and left. Everything rang and spun as he shoved his way out of the hall, blindly brushing past anyone who was still standing there. He thought he saw Neil, Jean, and Kevin standing near the entrance, but Andrew ignored them. He ignored Aaron calling out his name as his brother ran out after him. He found the nearest trash can and violently shoved the bouquet inside.

When he finally found his car, he just barely refrained from throwing his cello case into the trunk. Instead he slammed it so hard that the entire goddamn car shook, then leaned heavily against it and shut his eyes.

All these years, he'd kept Cass covered up within a paper wall. Because he'd been stupid enough to think that alone would be enough. That he'd be  _safe_ from here, that she'd never have to come into his life again. But this was all his fault, wasn't it? After all, it was Andrew who was a fucking  _fool_ and decided to become sentimental, become  _attached_. Decided he could  _want_ someone for once, someone who didn't look at him like he was something to be ravaged, like he was someone to be treated like a goddamn person for once. Decided to convince himself that it was a good idea  _not_ to hole Cass and the memory of her up behind ten layers of iron. Decided that maybe instead of stitching up the wounds she'd left behind for good, it was a better idea to just cover her up with a useless bandage, and hope no one ever tried to peek underneath the gauze. Because he promised himself he'd never let anyone close enough to even see the worst of his scars, so why bother?

But now - oh, _now_ \- all the ghosts he'd so carelessly and _carefully_ shoved into Cass's room were awake and swimming in his head. In his heart. In his _home_.

(Where was peace? It had left sometime when Andrew hadn't been looking).

((And now something else was here. Maybe grief. Maybe nostalgia. Definitely  _anger_. It marched right in, tore down everything he'd rebuilt, ripped apart every nice little thing  _peace_ had left for him, until everything was in shambles once more)).

_Welcome to square one. So glad to have you back._

And everything fucking hurt. Just how he remembered it the first, second, fiftieth times.

Andrew looked down at his trembling hands, at his whitened knuckles, and forced himself to unclench his fingers. A harsh breath tore through gritted teeth. Maybe he was bleeding. Maybe he wanted to throw up. He felt so sick just then. 

But his hands were just shaking uncontrollably. Like he had _stage fright_ or something.

(Any sense of spring he'd ever tasted, ever managed to garden, crumbled slowly to ash in his mouth).

((It was winter again, and he was nursing the same rotten wounds - again, again, _again_ )).

He slammed his fists against the trunk, hard enough to send pain ricocheting through his knuckles. He kicked the tires twice, the car shuddering with the force of it. A wounded yell threatened to tear through his throat, but he held it back just in time so all that came out was a botched growl. Then he buried his head in his arms, breathing heavily.

He hated her. He fucking hated her.

Because she'd managed to break him even though she'd never laid a hand on him.

Because after all this time, she _still_ couldn't see what loving her had done to him.

It had ravaged his arms and his trust and his home.  _Everything_.

Andrew stayed there for what felt like hours. He didn't look up even when he heard his brother approaching him, saying something about how Wymack had taken care of it. He didn't look up even when he heard Nicky start crying. He was sure that if he did, they'd both see something very sad, and very broken.

"Andrew, I'll drive." Aaron's voice was strained in a way Andrew hadn't heard before. "Come on. Let's just go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie i've had this chapter planned for the longest time and wow it is here!
> 
> andrew will be ok. promise. i wanted to show how chaotic and unfriendly healing can be, even if this fic has been relatively soft and (positively) emotional - and i hope i handled that ok. worry not (or do), this isn't the last of the sad bits. softness and sadness is my brand. however, i don't just throw in random angsty speed bumps either just for the wow factor - this is all central to andrew's recovery and moving the plot forward too.
> 
> up next: some bad, bad days. but andrew has a great support system.


	15. fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bad days.
> 
>  **fugue** : a contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase (the subject) is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts.
> 
> [the song that plays](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFHHc2Wlpug) at the end!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: memories and discussions of past rape (not explicit), implied past rape, drake, minor self-harm, discussions of past child abuse
> 
> last chapter: andrew performs his first concerto of the season. things are soured when cass shows up backstage.
> 
> some solid twinyard moments in here guys, buckle up and keep all limbs inside the ride at all times thanks *drops mic*
> 
> all that aside, I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!! i was focusing on other writing projects and got in a slump for a while, but i'm gonna try and pick things back up!! thank u for reading/sticking around <3

_"Andrew, baby? Come here for a second."_

_Cass was sitting at their dining room table. Andrew had been sitting gingerly on the couch, picking at his fingernails while he allowed the stupid kid's show playing in the background to numb the buzzing in his mind. He glanced around at her voice, and caught her gaze - warm and sweet and strangely fractured. Her lips twitched in a smile, and after a moment of hesitation, Andrew forced himself off the couch._

_"I got your favorite ice cream," she said as he carefully made his way over to her side, sliding quietly onto the chair. Cass didn't seem disturbed by his silence, only reaching over and sliding the now-thawed tub of cookies and cream ice cream in his direction._

_"Thanks," Andrew murmured, holding it close to his chest. He let the cold seep through his skin and crawl down his aching arms. Cass didn't notice._

_It took a while before she spoke again. Andrew had numbed his fingers to the point of not being able to feel them anymore, but he still didn't have the stomach to eat anything. He just sat back and hoped Cass wouldn't notice or ask questions. She didn't._

_Her next words were quiet, but Andrew could remember everything she said - every last nuance, inflection, every hesitance and piece of wreckage and earnestness._

_"Andrew, I've been thinking about this for a while now," she murmured, turning in her chair so she could face him completely. She took a deep breath, like she was fortifying herself. Andrew watched her silently._

_"I want to adopt you," she finally said after a long moment._

_He froze, hands tightening around the carton, denting the surface. A shudder threatened to make its way down his spine - he couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from this - this_ terrible  _gnawing ache that had suddenly opened in his chest. Like Cass had just reached inside him and stolen everything else that he'd still had._

_(Wasn't this what he'd always wanted, though? To find a real family, to have someone he could call a mother without having to come up with a sarcastic, half-hearted lie whenever someone asked?)_

_((Or maybe that was what he'd always told himself. Because everything was too big and he was too small, and no one could expect someone like him to handle the great, big world alone_ _, could they? Someone as broken and unknowing and ignorant to home as he was - he couldn't possibly go through_  this _alone_ )).

_Cass's hopeful smile fell when he didn't respond. The papers in her hands drooped, and she leaned forward._

_"Andrew? Are you okay?"_

_And everything fell back into its shattered place._

_"Yes," he lied._

_It wasn't permission or anything. But Cass still leaned forward and hugged him too tightly, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she pressed her smile against his cheek. Andrew squeezed his eyes shut - because it_ hurt _. He couldn't make himself hug her back -_

_(He wanted this he wanted this he swore he wanted this he knew that he did)._

_((_ He _was in Andrew's doorway again that night))._

 _and this was being found, but wasn't being found supposed to feel better? This hurt, like something sour was taking root in his bones, and he could feel every single damn thing in his marrow. This was foul, like the crawling of his skin where it brushed against her, yet she hadn't hurt_ him.

_Cass pulled away after a several long moments with a murmured, "I know this is a lot for you. We'll talk about it more later, alright?"_

_"Okay." Andrew's voice was too soft but it felt a thousand times louder._

_She kissed him chastely on the temple, before turning the papers upside down and standing up. Andrew wondered if he should leave - sneak away to the park in front of his school and just spend the rest of the day there - when the scene melted away._

_He was back in his bedroom. His back was pressed up against the headboard, but it was useless anyway._

_Drake was there. Ghastly smile, gleaming eyes, greedy hands. He'd closed the door behind him so that no one would see or hear them. The light from the hallway dimmed. Andrew clenched his fists but didn't move. His wrists ached. His whole body did._

_A low chuckle._

_"So Mom's adopting you for sure, huh?"_

_Andrew dug his fingers into the sheets as Drake began approaching him. He could hear the sick grin in his words._

_"I can't wait for you to move in with us, AJ." The bed dipped on his end. "It'll be so much fun."_

_His hand grabbed Andrew's shoulder, yanking him forward. The world fell out from underneath him, and suddenly Andrew was in the middle of a ditch. Hands trembling and chest shaking, he stumbled onto an empty highway._

_Right across from him was a fiery car wreck. Flames devoured the insides of the metal skeleton, flickering and sputtering into the midnight sky, as smoke rose listlessly from the debris. Nothing else sounded around Andrew besides the crackling of the fire and the hollow whisper of the wind as it slipped right behind him._

_His eyes fell down to the license._

_It was Drake's._

 --

When Andrew woke up, he couldn't find it in himself to even bother falling back asleep. Yet his limbs were far too heavy to move, pinning him against the bed as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. Everything was too small, his chest shuddering with every breath that grated through his lungs, his hands sweating as he flattened them against the sheets in a vain effort to ground himself.

It was days like this where existing was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Days where he didn't understand exactly _when_ the world had caved in on him while he wasn't paying attention - only that it  _had_ , and it  _hurt_. Days where he was a thousand miles gone - buried in the winter ashes - and everything else could only go on quietly. 

Days where his memories resurfaced, kept playing and playing on, like a broken fucking film reel that just kept rewinding, rewinding, rewinding. 

 _I want to adopt you_ , Cass had whispered, like it was the secret that would've toppled their Eden. Andrew could remember how she'd smiled the exact moment she'd said it, could trace it in the air like a goddamn constellation. Lopsided but hopeful, from down here, to up there.

(I want to forget I want to forget _let me forget_ ).

He shut his eyes tightly, clenching his knuckles. They still ached from punching his car last night.

(( _Please_ )).

_I love you, Andrew._

She'd said it like it was the easiest fucking thing in the world. Like it wasn't empty, like it hadn't been filled with her hollow promises and  _pipe dreams_ and failures. She'd said it like it was the most casual truth, when it  _wasn't_. Not to Andrew. Not to a broken boy like him, a shouldn't-have-been-but-was shattered child who just needed  _someone_ to stay.

Because she should've known that she was the first one Andrew had loved too -  _or so he'd thought_ \- so much that he'd willingly destroyed himself for it - 

(All for a dream).

Because she should've known that her  _real_ son was a monster, and maybe she really  _did_ know that, but - 

 _Andrew, he was my_ son.

_Not you._

Never you.

Andrew was far too broken for Cass. She never would've fixed him - not that she would've even tried. Her love was a band-aid, half-hearted and glass-half-empty. A home made of paper walls and false hope and siren songs, yet a love that Andrew had held out for anyways.

And so the world went on, and it crushed him.

He couldn't think of anything else. All he could do was lie there while the seas around him  _ravaged_ him, as he sat in the aftermath of it all. Everything was spinning wildly out of  _his_ control, out of  _his_ element - 

_Welcome to square one, Andrew._

He shouldn't feel this way. He was better than this. He wasn't supposed to be this fucking  _hurt_. Andrew didn't allow himself to hurt - it was only in his music that any of it could ever be heard, he made sure of that.

_I love you._

He'd come this fucking far, hadn't he? 

_Stay._

And his wrists hurt, remnants of resurfacing muscle memory, and Andrew dug his fingers into his skin so that he didn't do something impulsive, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

_So glad to have you back._

And the memories just kept playing over and over again, short flashes of them, tiny phrases, half-hidden smiles, one after another, until they all wove together into some ugly, foul  _thing_ - 

_I love you Andrew I really do he was my son not you but stay -_

_Square one._

\- a fugue.

(How was he supposed to get out of it?)

 --

Andrew didn't know how long he laid there, only that the sky had lightened the next time he looked. But it was still gray and heavy with clouds, and the window was half-open and the leftover chills were seeping beneath his skin.

As the morning dragged on, his phone kept buzzing. Andrew glanced at it, eyes trailing blankly over the names that kept popping up on the screen.

 **Nicky:** ur not at rehearsal r u home???

 **Kevin:** Are you coming to rehearsal? What do you need?

 **Nicky:** drew

 **Nicky:** r u ok? 

 **Aaron:** don't bother coming to rehearsal. i'll be there after.

 **Renee:** leaving the seat open for you in case you decide to come. take care, andrew. i'm open to sparring anytime if you need it x

 **Neil:** Nicky told me not to ask, so I won't. But if you need to talk, I'm here, Andrew.

It was too much. Andrew ended up picking up his phone and throwing it halfway across the room, watching listlessly as it clattered on the floor. He shut his eyes, shut out everything around him, holding his hands close to his chest, rubbing his fingers against his wrists.

He counted his breaths for what felt like hours. On and on, up to one hundred, then start again. Andrew did it until the memories grew numb and retreated to the corners of his mind, leaving everything ringing and empty in their wake. 

After an hour, he finally managed to force himself out of bed. His entire body felt heavy and useless as he sat up and slipped into a hoodie and jeans. Andrew tugged on his armbands, squeezing his left wrist too tightly, until his knuckles turned white and his hands began shaking. Raw scars, phantom scabs - everything was too much and too familiar.

Andrew dropped his hand, digging his nails into his sheets rather than his skin, and stood up before he could do something else stupid, like try to hurt himself again. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror, only pausing long enough to put on his glasses.

He was so late to rehearsal that it was probably rude to show up at this point, but Andrew picked up his cello and left anyways.

The skies were heavy and gray as he aimlessly made his way through the traffic. Andrew's hands tightened around the wheel, every movement jerky and forced as his hoodie began rubbing a little too intensely against his skin, weighing a little too much. 

When he finally arrived at the Foxhole Hall, his hands were trembling. Killing the engine, Andrew sat back with a tight sigh. Reaching into his pockets, he grabbed his cigarette pack and shook one out, shutting his eyes as he finally managed to light it after five consecutive tries. Smoke filled his mouth to the brim like blood, and Andrew inhaled until it hurt, before lowering his cigarette and exhaling sharply.

Only until after he'd finished his cigarette did he leave the car. Grabbing his cello from the trunk, Andrew made his way up the stairs, shoving his other hand in his pocket so no one could see it waver.

The doors slid open as soon as he stepped close enough, signalling to the entire world his presence. Andrew paused for only a moment, before making his way to his chair - open, as Renee had promised. He ignored the stares on his back; he refused to look at Renee, or Neil, or Kevin, or Nicky, or Aaron, as he headed down the aisle. He pretended he didn't notice the way-too-concerned look on his cousin's face or the half-relieved, half-distressed expression on Aaron's.

"Minyard!" Wymack sounded casual enough, but Andrew could see the old look on his face as he set down his baton. "Glad you made it. I actually wanted to talk to you about your concerto. Come to my office, bring your things."

He didn't wait to see if Andrew was following him before stepping off the podium, motioning to the rest of the Foxes to take a break. Ignoring the others, Andrew paused for a few seconds, before heading after his coach.

Wymack was already at his desk by the time Andrew came in, shutting the door behind him. He motioned for Andrew to sit down, eyeing him intently as he did.

"You look like shit, Andrew," he said bluntly after a long minute of silence.

Andrew set down his case a little too harshly at that, and Wymack sighed. He leaned forward, any trace of faux nonchalance falling from his face, replaced only by a weary kind of concern that came only from experience.

"Okay. I'm giving you one of two choices, Minyard," he said. "Choice one: you can go home now. Take a few days off, whatever you need. Renee can hold the front while you're gone. Or, choice two: you can stay in my office and leave when rehearsal's over, with everyone else. Either way, I'm not going to force you to play today. I'm honestly surprised you showed up - I had Aaron text you not to."

Andrew stared at him for a long minute. Words flickered weakly on his tongue like dying flames, but none of them sputtered up. 

"Coach," he muttered, his voice wobbling and tripping over itself as he spoke for the first time that day. Wymack raised his eyebrows like that alone proved his point.

"I want you to come back to rehearsal when things are better, when you've got yourself together. By the looks of it, you're nowhere close." Wymack gazed at him for a moment longer, and when Andrew couldn't muster the will or the words to reply, he rapped his knuckles once against the table.

"I'm a grumpy old man - you know that. But I care." His eyebrows twitched, and his lips pulled into a frown. "If I'd known who she was, I wouldn't have let her in at all."

"You didn't know." Andrew twisted his hands in his lap, even as his forearms began itching and his chest began tightening again at the thought of her. "No one knew."

(No one was supposed to know).

Wymack pursed his lips. "Alright." He waited only a moment longer, before pushing his chair back and standing up.

"Listen. In the end, I don't know what happened that night, and I'm not going to ask," he said quietly. "All I know is that someone or something hurt you, and you need time. Maybe it's time you've needed for a while, but never took. Whatever it is, I'm giving you that time now.

"So take what you need. Don't worry about giving anything back. I'll see you when I see you." He tapped his hand on the desk like it was a substitute for patting Andrew on the shoulder. He headed for the door, resting his hand on the knob, before looking back.

"Andrew," he called. Andrew glanced around.

"Coach," he muttered. 

Wymack pointed at him. "I'm counting on you for that tenure, alright?" 

He smiled tightly at him, before slipping out and shutting the door quietly, leaving Andrew alone.

He sat there for - he didn't know how long. He stared out the window, the view outside obscured by the blinds, the watery, cloudy light filtering in and turning everything gray. Wymack's clock ticked away in the corner, a constant drumbeat, a drone. Andrew leaned forward, resting his elbows against the desk as he pressed his forehead against his fists. 

(Here was the thing about recovery: it was every inch bitter and cruel and cold, a friend that would comfort you with an  _everything will be okay_ one moment, then stab you in the back the next).

((But Andrew, he couldn't heal - not really - without taking out the bullet. And at some point, it had grown right into his garden. And Andrew had let it happen)).

It felt like ripping himself open once again - something he was oh, so intimately familiar with - but he supposed it was a necessary evil. It was what Bee would've said. It was what even Wymack would've said.

He clenched his fists, letting his nails carve half-hearted moons into his palms. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe in for four seconds, until he couldn't anymore. Forced himself to hold his breath until his lungs burned, before slowly letting it seep out of him - a willing defeat. 

Andrew didn't know when he'd fallen asleep, slumped over Wymack's desk, almost as if he'd been up all night reviewing audition tapes rather than reliving memories. But he fell asleep, and it was an exhausted one. He drifted off - no dreams, no nightmares, no Cass.

Just nothing.

\--

It was Aaron who took Andrew home.

Nicky was gone, and so were most of the other Foxes. Andrew had just woken up, brushing his hair out of his eyes, when the door creaked open and his brother looked in.

"Coach told me you were here," he explained when Andrew met his gaze. It was too complex and heavy for Andrew to bother sifting through - but he thought there was a glimmer of dark understanding there somewhere.

Andrew quietly got up from the chair after a moment, stretching out his sore arm before grabbing his case. Aaron held his hand out for Andrew's keys, which he placed in his brother's palm. Aaron was careful not to accidentally brush against him as Andrew moved past. Their footsteps echoed through the now-empty rehearsal hall, Andrew's case straps jingling in an all-too familiar facade of normalcy, when it was anything but that.

Aaron got into the driver's seat and hesitated to turn the key in the engine. Andrew leaned against the window, letting the cold glass jar him into fleeting wakefulness again. He wondered if Aaron would let it slide if he started smoking right there, in the passenger seat. 

The drive back to his apartment was silent, punctured by the occasional honks of someone that Aaron had cut off. Andrew stepped out the car even before Aaron had turned off the engine, pausing only long enough to take his case out the trunk before heading inside. Something light fell against his nose - it was rain.

(It'd been his birthday, the last time it'd rained).

He left his front door half-open for Aaron, but didn't wait for him. Andrew set his case down by the doorway and retreated to his bedroom. 

Fumbling through his pockets, he took out his cigarettes and shook three into his palm. He sat down, struggling to light one up, inhaling deeply until he coughed up smoke. Then he crushed the cigarette against the windowsill and lit another one, this one tasting slightly better than the last, and clenched his fingers in his hoodie. The quiet was disrupted by the sound of the front door shutting as Aaron came in.

Andrew ended up leaning against the wall, smoke trailing listlessly from between his lips as he watched some of the raindrops fall through the open window and land at his feet. Blankly, he let his gaze fall from the dreary sky to the neat line of ashen circles smudged against the windowsill from where he'd been smoking his way through an entire pack. 

Soft footsteps approached him, signalling Aaron had come back. Andrew forced his head away from the wall, glancing over to see his brother sitting down on the edge of his bed. In his hands were two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

"You haven't eaten anything all day," was his explanation when all Andrew did was stare at him. "At least drink this."

It was another long minute before Andrew could force himself to move, holding out his hand so Aaron could put the mug in his palm. His brother was careful not to touch him, watching him intently as Andrew curled his fingers around the hot surface and let the pain shock him back into wakefulness. They sat there in silence, Aaron cradling his cup on his lap as he moved to settle down at the foot of the bed, Andrew watching the raindrops roll and shatter at the base of the window.

His drink was beginning to cool when he finally spoke again.

"You don't like hot chocolate." 

His voice was raspy from chain-smoking and disuse. Aaron met his eyes, setting down his cup. 

"It's not about me," he said after a long pause. 

Andrew took a slow sip of the drink, before flicking open his pack of cigarettes again. He shook the last one out and lit it after several botched tries, Aaron watching him with an unreadable expression the entire time.

"I don't want your pity." Andrew lowered the cigarette, blowing a mouthful of smoke in his brother's direction. Aaron wrinkled his nose.

"This isn't pity," he retorted.

"Then what are you doing?" 

Aaron clenched his jaw like he was trying not to yell or burst out in protest. Andrew recognized that tell - no matter how many years stood between him and the last time Tilda Minyard had laid a hand on him, Aaron always stayed quiet whenever he could. It was a habit he hadn't quite unlearned yet.

His brother ended up huffing sharply, gripping Andrew's sheets with his fists.

"You know I couldn't be there before." His voice was tight - angry, frustrated, bitter. "But I am now, and I'm not going anywhere. You can try pushing me away all you want but I know you feel the same. No one's hurting us anymore, not if I can help it."

Andrew looked away. He had nothing else to say - he let Aaron's words sink deep into him until they etched themselves among his bones. Something twinged painfully in his chest as he sat back, something a little closer than a thousand miles. But his brother had said what he needed to say, and he looked calmer because of it. 

They stayed quiet for a long time after that. Andrew let Aaron stay there as he finished his last cigarette, crushing it against his windowsill again to complete the line. The only sounds filling the room came from the bustle of the traffic down in the streets. Then he picked up his cold hot chocolate, ignoring the uncomfortable way it settled in his stomach as he finished the whole thing. 

"Where's Nicky?" he asked quietly when he was done.

"Home." Aaron shrugged. "He didn't want to upset you - thought you needed some quiet."

Andrew nodded, before closing his eyes. Aaron shuffled around a little as he got more comfortable, before clearing his throat.

"Do you want to talk?"

"About what?" Andrew knew exactly what -  _who_ \- Aaron had in mind, but even thinking about her turned his mouth bitter and his stomach over. He opened his eyes and met his brother's gaze - he almost flinched from the sheer  _openness_ in them.

"Anything. Just talk." Aaron shrugged, only half-awkward. "What do you want me to talk about?"

Andrew shrugged, mimicking his brother. Shoulder up an inch, head tilted slightly to the left. Aaron quirked a brow, but didn't call him out for it. Settling back, he tucked his knees up to his chest and laced his fingers over them, tapping his thumbs like he always did when he was thinking of something. Andrew watched him silently, letting his own hands rest limply in his lap when Aaron finally reanimated.

"Wymack got pretty pissed at the brass earlier today. The trombone principal quit last minute and he needs to find a replacement, and the rest of the section fell apart." Andrew hummed in recognition, and Aaron's lips twitched in an almost smile. "He threatened to force us all to [eat hot peppers while playing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuvUaFp_qMQ) the  _Firebird Suite_. I wish you'd seen Kevin's face. 

"We didn't really do much, honestly. Our next concert isn't until next month, so he made us hold sectionals for the rest of rehearsal. Nicky fucked around the whole time. Sometimes I wonder how he managed to become a professional. He has a degree and everything."

Andrew let his brother's voice wash over him, quiet yet steady enough to distract him. The conversation, one-sided as it was, quickly grew aimless. Aaron talked about the smallest things - they slipped easily from Andrew's attention - but they rooted the too-big world with too-little graces.

"Everyone was worried, you know," Aaron was saying when Andrew caught his gaze again. "Neil was especially. I was surprised."

Andrew stared at his brother for a long minute, remembering Neil's text from earlier. It stirred something in him, but he couldn't quite place the finger on what it was. "Neil?" he repeated.

"Actually, no," Aaron corrected himself. "I'm not that surprised. He cares about you. A lot."

"Okay." 

Aaron raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong with that?"

Everything was wrong. That was the answer.

Himself. Breaking. Cass.

The windowsill cigarettes. The rain. This postmortem loss.

Neil. Aaron. Bee. 

                                   Nicky. Kevin. Coach.

Andrew. _Joseph_. Minyard.

How many times did he have to fall apart and have no other choice but to put himself back together? How many times did he have to be lost? Wandering aimlessly in the chaos that just kept pulling him back in, no matter how far he seemed to get from it. No matter how much he'd recovered, it was just this: one step forward, two steps back. Keep going until he was too tired to do so, and keep going until he broke his character.

Keep going because he _had no choice._ Keep going until all he had left was a promise to hold on that he'd made to no one and somehow everyone. 

(It was  _wrong_ \- because giving himself away had never been a choice before, not until recently. Because he'd always torn himself apart before others could, not unless they caught him off guard. Because this self-sabotage was as much part of his muscle memory as music was, as  _ask-before-you-touch_ was, as  _relapse-then-heal_ _-then-ruin-then-heal_ was).

Aaron leaned forward, gaze serious. "Andrew, you know we care." His voice was quiet but persistent. "This isn't a one way road anymore. None of us will let you be the only one who gives yourself away anymore."

(It was easier said than done, of course).

((The world couldn't unlearn itself. Neither could muscle memory)).

Andrew didn't know how much time passed as the two of them sat in silence again. All he knew was that there were words suddenly pressing at his tongue, and they were words that had been laying in rot for years.

Maybe it was just the numbness getting to him, or the anger. Or the exhaustion. 

His home was empty. There were only half-gone ghosts and weariness, and in the midst of it all, the tired truth stumbled out.

"Her name is Cass." Aaron's head snapped up like Andrew had just yelled at him. "Cass Spear."

His brother opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Andrew's chest ached emptily, like he'd just _stung_ himself, but he went on. 

"I was twelve, turning thirteen. It was before I'd found out about you, before Bee found us." At that, Aaron looked down, jaw clenching painfully. "I had wanted to stay with her the most."

(A dream that ended so well for him).

"She was always kind. She never laid a hand on me, not like the others did." Andrew shut his eyes against the memories that threatened to well up - the hands, the greed, the clumsy, fucked-up handling of gone-too-soon innocence. He waited it out, before continuing.

"But she was blind, _so_ blind. Her son was a monster. He liked to come at night. He liked to - hold me down. Sometimes he would tickle me to make it 'fun.' She never noticed the day after."

Aaron was smart. He could put two-and-two together from the little Andrew offered him.

He astutely averted his brother's gaze, but he could feel it boring into him anyways. Everything felt far too raw just then, from willingly baring the wounds he'd never wanted anyone to see, letting the winter chill seep into the dead spring of a scarred recovery. It was hard to even breathe, and Andrew dug his nails into skin as he counted to twenty, then backwards, then forward again.

He didn't want to be seen. He didn't want the backwards seasons - winter wasn't supposed to come after the quiet spring - and he didn't want to  _be_ here. 

But Cass needed a eulogy, after all. And some ghosts needed a second, third, fourth death to stay gone.

Andrew focused his gaze on a spot outside, where the rainfall had grown heavier and was beginning to wash away the circles of ash he'd left on his windowsill. 

"But I still wanted to stay with her," he said tightly. "I was twelve. I thought she was the closest to family I'd have."

Aaron inhaled shakily after a minute. "She never was." 

"I made her into some grand dream." A humorless laugh threatened to escape him, but Andrew held it back. "It turns out she is just as pathetic as I was."

"You were _twelve_." Aaron sounded cold and angry, like he wanted to burn the world down for everything wrong it had ever done to them. Like he wanted to break it apart and assemble it into something less unforgiving, with his bare hands. 

Andrew understood the feeling. It was a light between his ribs that flickered on from time to time.

Several long minutes passed before either of them spoke again, reveling in the aftermath of battle. Aaron was quiet, his voice low and half-shattered, when he began talking - a wound for a wound.

"Sometimes she would go for days without hitting me. Those days I thought that she'd somehow changed." He huffed an empty laugh, fist clenching like he was mimicking her. "I thought I'd done something right for once, and maybe she'd forgiven me. Then one of her boys would do something wrong, or she'd run out of drugs, and she'd go right back to me.

"But I still convinced myself she was the only thing I had. What else was I supposed to do? I had no one." Aaron's shoulders sagged. "Until I found out about you."

His words drifted in the still air, before coming to a stop in front of Andrew. He looked away from the window, back at his brother. 

"Pitiful."

( _Everything stopped and started with you_ , Andrew meant to say).

Aaron's eyes hardened. "If I see... _Cass_ again - "

( _The pain that went unnoticed into the quiet nights. The pervasive melancholy, that quiet monster, that ensnared them in its thorns. The misplaced guilt, the cruel self-sabotage, the_ stay-with-me-because-we're-all-you-have _._ _The world, with its relentless turning - you stopped it_ ) _._

" - I will kill her."

( _The winter that began melting to spring, bit by bit, year after year. The flowers that grew from between the scars and the wounds, between the lingering hurt and the unnamed ghosts. The fleeting rains of hope that kept coming and coming, the peace that came and went and sometimes stayed -_ you _started it_ ).

"You couldn't," was all Andrew really said.

His brother shook his head. "I would tear this entire damn world apart - "

Ah, there it was.

"For _you_."

The truth.

(And the truth was this: they weren't heroes. They weren't warriors. They were brothers, they were family. They were  _lost_ ,  _so lost_ \- vanishing here and there, flickering from time to time).

((Yet here they were, fractured but  _found_ \- somehow, always).

 

For a moment, the Spears disappeared. All that remained was Andrew, Aaron, and the rain washing away the ash.

His brother reached out. Andrew didn't know why, but after a few moments, he reached forward too. They linked their pinkies in the middle. Aaron's lips twitched in a faint impression of a smile.

Andrew didn't know what promise he was making - only that it felt an awful lot like holding on.

\--

They stayed together for the rest of the day. Aaron forced Andrew to eat dinner - take-out from the restaurant across the street - and he'd only managed to eat some rice and noodles before leaving the rest for his brother. Andrew didn't move, slumping against the wall and tossing aside his now-empty box of cigarettes as Aaron went back into the kitchen. A glance at the clock told him it was almost nine in the evening now, and this was the most tired he'd ever felt.

He was half-adrift when suddenly someone began knocking on the door. Andrew opened his eyes, glancing over to see Aaron cross the living room to answer. He waited, listening as his brother began talking in a hushed tone to whoever was there. 

Pushing himself off the bed, Andrew headed out into the living room. His gaze fell on his brother, standing in the doorway, for some reason wrapped up in a hug. When Aaron noticed him and stepped aside, all Andrew could do was stand there stupidly and blink in numb shock.

"Bee?"

"Andrew." There were worlds of emotions in his name, but Bee had only a smile on her face as she stepped forward. 

Aaron glanced between the two of them, before shouldering his coat. He caught Andrew's eye, lips twitching in that _Aaron_ almost-smile again. "I'll see you tomorrow, Andrew."

Bee reached out and touched his elbow, and Aaron paused long enough that she could lean up and kiss him on the cheek. "Good night, Aaron," she said warmly.

"Night, Bee."

Andrew stood in silence as his brother left, closing the door behind him. Bee set her bag down on the table, her smile falling slightly as she took in Andrew. To his relief, no words of pity or apologies left her, even when she frowned slightly.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked after a long minute. 

"Aaron told me," Bee explained. "I came as soon as I heard."

"You flew."

"Of course." She headed past Andrew to his living room, played with something on the radio sitting on the coffee table that he never used. "Tell you what, why don't you sit down? I'll make hot chocolate."

Andrew watched her as she put a CD into the radio, clicking the 'on' button. He didn't tell her that Aaron had already made him hot chocolate that afternoon, only sitting down at the table like she'd asked him to. Bee tinkered around in the kitchen, the soft sounds of spoons clinking and water running drowned out by the music that suddenly began filtering out the speakers. 

Slow, lilting [piano chords](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFHHc2Wlpug), melancholy and bittersweet. Then, the gentle cello joining in harmony, wordless but achingly familiar. The same lullaby that seemed to haunt Andrew all his life - the one that Bee had played for him the very first time he'd had a nightmare, the same on that Bee was playing for him now. 

Suddenly Cass's ghost flickered. Bee started humming along to the lullaby in the kitchen - 

His  _real_ mother.

Bee, and her unconditional home. Bee, and her patient determination. Bee, and the way she'd unraveled Andrew's thorns without thinking of  _what-if-he-pricks-me-in-the-process_ , only thinking of  _they're-hurting-_ him- _the-most._ Without that accusatory  _you're-too-broken-for-me_ , only the gentle  _you're-broken-but-I-won't-let-you-go_.

His abusers had left him bereft of anything, nothing,  _nothing_ ; his abusers had made him believe he was King Midas and everything he touched, everything he wanted, crumbled to ash.

But Bee - not just Bee, his  _family_ , his  _real_ family - she had taken him in despite it all. Because he wasn't King Midas, he was Atlas, holding up the weight of the world he hadn't asked for. Because he  _wasn't_ Atlas, he was  _Andrew_ , clawing and fighting his way out of rock bottom, out of square one, out of the wreckage and ruins he'd been found in, because he - 

He was  _more_.

And it was just that.

Two steaming mugs, topped with whipped cream and marshmallows, were set down in front of him. Something vaguely resembling amusement flickered in Andrew when he compared the monstrosity that was Bee's hot chocolate to the plain simplicity that was Aaron's. Still, he wrapped his hands around it, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

Bee sat down across from him, taking a long sip from her own mug as the music kept playing. Andrew blinked, and for a moment he was fourteen again, still looking over his shoulder and waiting to be hurt in a home that was too good to be true. 

Then, he was twenty-four again. Older, with everything still the same - but worlds different.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Bee's question wasn't forceful or prying, just a casual offer. Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, sighing.

"I told Aaron," he said after a while. "About her."

Bee knew what had happened to both Andrew and Aaron before, but rarely did Andrew discuss his history openly. She leaned forward at his words, reaching out with her hands up - another offer.

Andrew took it after a long, long moment. Tentatively resting his hands on top of hers, he let Bee curl her fingers - still warmed by her mug - around him, thumbs rubbing circles against his skin. It was strange, but not completely unfamiliar.

"You care, Andrew," Bee murmured gently. "You care so much. No one sees how much it hurts you, because you don't let them."

He looked away, fingers twitching. Bee didn't let go.

"I only want you to get closure," she continued. "But some wounds, you just let them  _fester_. We all do it. I do it. We hold it and keep it close even though we don't think about it, because it seemed so good, but it really was so terrible, right?

"None of the things that happened to you, you deserved. You were a child, and people took advantage of you. People hurt you, and broke you, and you deserved absolutely _none_ of that.

"So when someone comes along and shows you a sliver of decency, you take it. But Andrew, you deserve  _good_ things. You deserve happiness." Bee's eyes looked strangely watery in the dim living room light, but she shook her head and sighed deeply. "You deserve people who will stay -  _for you_."

Andrew's throat was tight and his chest ached and he couldn't look at Bee, not right then, so he stared at the melting marshmallows in his drink and breathed shakily - because he had to. She squeezed his hands, a reassurance -  _I'm here_.

It was excruciating to force the next words out, but somehow, Andrew managed to.

"I thought she would've stayed for me." 

(And  _that_ was the worst thing, because Cass had never hurt him, but she'd almost destroyed him regardless).

((And maybe Andrew had been holding on to her out of sentiment, but maybe also out of a warning, too - that  _she_ was what happened if he got too attached)).

Then Bee took that warning and gently tore it apart.

"She didn't."

Andrew looked up. "You did."

Her smile was sad but also tentatively hopeful.

"This isn't about me, Andrew," she said. "I can't tell you when it will get better - but it will. And, as hard as it is sometimes, remember that there  _are_ people who love and care about you. 

"And if you're stuck, we will find you."

She stood up and headed to his side, her touch on his shoulder so light that Andrew hardly registered it. She leaned down, and only after Andrew nodded in affirmation, did she kiss him chastely on the forehead.

"You've risen up, a thousand times before," she murmured. "And you'll do it a thousand times again."

He closed his eyes, hands clenching around air as she continued, "Because I know you. That's who you are, Andrew."

The song fizzled out into silence. For a moment, only radio static played, and after several seconds, a new tune began playing, floating through the air - unfamiliar and untouched.

Bee returned to her seat, smiling when she met Andrew's eyes.

"Are you staying?" he asked quietly. What felt like eons of history laid behind the question.

"Of course," she answered.

"I don't have a guest bedroom."

They gazed at each other for a long moment. Bee blinked, like she was surprised, before breaking into soft laughter.

"Oh. That's - I have a hotel. It's alright." She leaned back, holding up her mug like she was toasting him. "How about I catch you up on my fellow interns, and you get some rest. You must be tired."

Andrew found himself listening to everything Bee said, letting the words wash over him as he finished her hot chocolate. New York shrank until it was just the two of them, sitting in the wake of ruination but also reclamation.

It was small, but it was something he could handle. 

It was eleven when Bee left, with another kiss to the temple and a promise to call him when she touched down safely in South Carolina. Andrew turned off the radio, standing for a moment in the silence, strange and big, before heading back to his own room.

He picked up his phone, turning it on.

 **Aaron:** is bee still there?

After a moment, he texted back.

 **You:** thank you

Andrew turned off his phone before his brother could reply. He'd answer everyone else's texts tomorrow, when everything was less raw, less  _open_. 

 

He kept his armbands on that night.

(So Eden fell. The world grew heavier. Everything ached but didn't).

Andrew knew his own suffering like he knew his own healing - chaotic and unforgiving and relentless. He knew he'd pick up the pieces sooner or later. Assemble them into something that resembled recovery, keep holding himself up, keep doing the bare minimum, until they fell into permanence.

But Bee was right. Today - he was tired. 

Perhaps tomorrow would be different. But tonight, Andrew curled up in his bed, bones heavy, strained from a day that had felt far too long. He watched the starless night, Bee's words - not Cass's - echoing through his mind until his eyes grew sore, and then rolled over to stare at the opposite wall. He gazed into empty space until exhaustion pulled him under once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let andrew emote 2k19
> 
> up next: karaoke night, a trip to sweetie's, and _family._
> 
> (i'm planning on killing all of u with emotions so get ready)

**Author's Note:**

> yes, another fic when i have 4 other ongoing ones. ya heard me. i've already decided the instruments everyone is gonna play, this is gonna be SO GOOD!! listen to the links i put in the beginnings for the full effect - i chose the versions i liked best and suited how i'd imagine them to play. :) 
> 
> also this is based off of my own experiences in a youth, pre-professional orchestra. so it's not accurate, considering the fact that here, they're Professionals!!! i know it doesn't really matter but just wanted to put that out there, in case it becomes bothersome.
> 
> thanks for reading!! any comments/kudos are appreciated <3


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